


Vamplock: The Middle

by kissing2cousins



Series: The Dark Gift [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Blood, Blood Drinking, Demonic Possession, Demons, Explosions, Hatred, Heavy Angst, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex, Self-Indulgent, Self-Sacrifice, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 120,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissing2cousins/pseuds/kissing2cousins
Summary: The thrilling case continues.  Sherlock Holmes is lost in a new supernatural world that threatens to swallow all the logic and reasoning he has lived his life by so far.  He has lost John again and he must somehow make up for it, if he can outwit the demon that now stalks him.  It is an adventure that sends him all over Europe searching for the answers to life, love, and the after life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two of Vamplock

 

 

 

“Well now, Sherlock,” The blond was standing over him, looking triumphant and self-satisfied, “you still have a choice.”

The detective was slumped rather haplessly against the white couch, barely sitting upright.  All of him felt heavy and lethargic.  It pained him to move any muscle, even to keep his head from drooping to his chest.  His neck throbbed where John had sank his inexperienced fangs into his flesh, seeking with a feral desire, the life substance that would now sustain his new vampirical form.  The bite had been messy and savage and his torso was warm with the wet trickle of his own blood seeping out in the wake of the incident. 

In the periphery of his blurred vision he could see the thoughts he was gathering from the scene, which he now was the very center of, flashing past.  His vision was blurred and swirled slightly about the edges, between heavy droops of his eye lids, which were hard to thwart.  His heart rate was elevated, the shock of the events still controlling many of his physical functions.  The wound was not critical but did pose a significant risk to his life, as did the man he was left alone with. 

Still it seemed so fantastical, so incredibly impossible, so scientifically improbable.  His rational mind fought against his experiences through the fog of shock and tried to repel what he knew was fact and yet could not explain.  John was not a vampire, he was a man, had been taken away from him again, and many other nugatory responses seemed to rise in his mind.  Every fiber of his physical being seemed to want to dissuade him from believing that he had really lost John for a second time.  That he could not save him.  That he had failed.

Typically, his emotions catapulted from self-assessing, disbelieving, to rash anger that brought him to manage a stumbling rasp, “What have you done...”  It had not been a question, but more of a rhetorical condemnation.  It proved just as ineffectual.

There was a light huff of laughter from the blond vampire that stood opposite him, hands crossed over his body, as though this were a business meeting and not a supernatural crime scene.  The vampire was dressed for the part.  His pale blue dress shirt was rolled up to his elbows, streaked with droplets of crimson that stained the man from his chin to his knees, none of it his own.  The creature arched a skeptical brow and with a shake of his head, condescended the detective in a mocking tone, “Oh Sherlock, seriously? Don't be tedious, you know what happened.  Now hurry up would you, I haven't got all night.”  His voice paused and suddenly his form was before Sherlock, that leering pale face a foot from his own.  He was down on one knee, his icy gaze intense, as he quietly asked the detective at his mercy, “Now, do you accept my offer or not?”

Sherlock was confused by this proposition.  It was the second time that Lestat had offered this demonic gift to him—as though that was what it truly was—a gift, a blessing to be bestowed upon the recipient, disguising the very real fact that it would mean what Sherlock had come to understand must be a mortal death, in every sense of the word.  The detective was not sure why this powerful beast wished to ask when he could so simply take.  Yet given the choice now once more, Sherlock was unsure what he wished. 

Perhaps it was his inability to comprehend all of the parameters of making such a decision, of what he would become, or maybe it was the shock and the blood loss that fogged his mind.  His gaze averted from the irascibly beautiful devil temptingly before him, as he incoherently babbled, “I…I need time—t-to think.”  It felt stupid and useless even to his own ears and the detective was shocked to realize that he had spoken the abhorrent blather.

The vampire clicked his tongue against the inside of his cheek and gave a comical twist of his head, as his eyes disappointedly regarded the mortal.  In a deprecating tone the creature spoke to the detective as though he were reinforcing an undisputable truth, as he gestured to his physical state, “You unfortunately don’t have the luxury of time.  In case you've missed it, you are bleeding out.”

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed and locked with the vampire’s.  There was no disputing this truth.  He knew that he had little chance now of surviving this encounter, even if he were to reach help.  He was growing weaker every second that past.  There was no way that emergency services would be able to reach him before his heart gave out.  Yet, he was still in stubborn denial of this fact, despite the high rate of probability that he had calculated in his mind, cropping up like an unbidden text alert in his periphery.

Lestat began to hum a song—with contempt Sherlock did recognize the tune.  With asinine intent it was the theme from the American quiz based game show, _Jeopardy_.  Sherlock loathed the simple minded competition, so beneath his own incredible intelligence.  It was a sardonic mock that the vampire should hum this to him now, as he calculated his response to the ultimate question—death or demonic immortality.

The man sat back onto his backside, casually draping an arm over his raised knee, and conversationally pressed, “Well now, what will it be?”  There was a flash of fangs as the vampire’s lips moved into a predatory smile, both alluring and distasteful.  “Will you come, Sherlock, and experience eternity with me?”

With a sudden whip-like reflex, the detective churlishly snapped, “But it can't be just a taste, can it?”

“Well...” the creature admitted with a nonplussed tilt of his head, “Nothing is truly eternal. Not even for me.”

"That was in poor taste, Lestat.” Sherlock found the will to spurn the narcissistic prick. “I think I'd rather bleed out.”

“Ha!  You’re a terrible liar, Mr. Holmes.” the blond responded, equally cross.  “You're quite experienced at dying, from what I know.  If you had them wowed with your fall, just imagine the tricks you could show them now if you chose to.”

“Tricks don't enthuse me. All that matters is my work.”  It came out unbidden and once there it could not be expunged.   

Lestat gave him a knowing look and whispered the regrettable reminder, “And John?”

The only response the detective had was said once more without forethought.  “John is...” his words faltered and then the repugnantly he said, “other.”  It was a dissatisfying explanation for what the other man meant to him and he was instantly remorseful.

The creature did not skip a beat, never able to pass up an opportunity to deride.  "Such poetry!” he crowed, pointing at the detective, “you would have fit well in the Victorian era. All romance and verse.”  The vampire’s tone shifted and pityingly, he continued, “You should have just taken my offer in the first place and maybe your little doctor would not have suffered so.” 

A hand reached out and pinched his cheek, giving his head a little shake.  “You wouldn't leave him alone now would you?  Immortality is best accomplished in the company of the few friends who would have us and John is certainly the only one who would have you.  He gave his life for you after all.”

Recognizing the manipulation, Sherlock scornfully chided, "That is a low blow even for you, Lestat.”  Then lamely, out of pure hatred and frustration, he childishly added, “Also... you’re being a cock."

Lestat’s eyes twinkled as his wicked grin spread wide across his face.

“What other option do I have?  This has been your plan all along.” The detective reminded the damned vampire, “Is this the only way that it can be done, then?  Only if I accept?"

“No.” the answer was simple, given with a shake of the other’s head.  “I just find that far more entertaining.  It would be such a pity to watch you die.  A shame really.”  Odiously, he continued to shame his victim.  “John wouldn't take that well.  I don't imagine he would last long.  He seems like the guilty conscience type.”

Seeing no alternative but his own death—which would solve nothing for himself or for his love—the detective finally spat back what the vampire wished to hear.  “Do what you will with me.”

It was drastically different this time, the shot of pain that came from the teeth sinking into his flesh was only a pinprick and then the thrum of his heart reverberated heat in time with a strange cotton-headed pleasure. Even as his fingers grew cold with the precious little blood he had being drained away by the creature that held him, there was no pain in the action. His mind was whirring slower and slower with the events that had transpired, like a vortex in a bathtub drain, the scenes played over in his mind as he watched the drastic shift of his world spiraling downward to this moment.

 _Thrum_ –His return to Baker street – _Thrum_ – John and Mary’s engagement _— Thrum_ – The cases with blood loss – _Thrum_ – The mysterious tenant – _Thrum_ – John’s disappearance – _Thrum_ – Lestat’s introduction – _Thrum_ – Vampires…

With reality fading in and out of focus it was a long lagging moment before Sherlock realized that Lestat had left off him. The material world had faded to the thunder of his heartbeat, too numb now to feel much of anything else. There was a voice that sounded as if in a tunnel.  He thought he recognized it but—it was impossible.  Then there was shouting as he struggled against the blackness and the flashbulb-white his vision had become. Something whizzed past him, the breeze tousling his dark curls. It was critical he stay awake.  If he succumbed to the impending darkness he would not recover consciousness again. There had been too much blood now lost, too much trauma, and his body’s reserves were gone. 

 On the brink of sinking he envisioned Molly, angry, and in crisp white.  She slapped him hard across the face and his body shook with the jolt of it. She reminded him he could not give in and urged him to latch onto the chill that was beginning to register through the haze. His eyes fluttered open to the room and he could see the dark silhouette of the blond standing with his back turned, several feet away.

"Who the _hell_ do you think you are?" Lestat's voice was thick with rage. There had been some other drastic shift in the already impossible situation he was in and Sherlock struggled to keep his eyes open in hopes to bring the figures in the room into focus. 

"Ah-ah-ah. That one belongs to me and I've got tooooo much invested in him for you to go ruining all my hard work." There was a singsong tone in the voice that answered and despite the unearthly rumbling there was a very uncomfortable familiarity that made the consulting detective’s skin crawl.

Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness hit him. Along with it came a violent convulsion that almost knocked him over.  There was a flash in his mind that produced John this time.  John shouted his name, his face a mix of frustration and disappointment, as he reminded Sherlock that he couldn’t just leave things as they were. The trembling consulting detective sucked in a hissing breath and opened his eyes again.

The silhouette of the blond came into focus for just moment before it disappeared in a unnatural flash of speed. There was a fierce growl followed by the sound of glass shattering, the pieces clinking all around him and an otherworldly demonic laughter seemed to fill the entire room. Whatever was happening around him was too fast and furious to be seen but it was obvious that Lestat had been interrupted and a fight had broken out. Most interestingly, the fight seemed to be over him. 

 *** 

Lestat stood panting and bloody on the cracked marble tile, his icy blue eyes assessing the gaunt devil that stood across from him. The man was thin with short cropped black hair and eyes that seemed impossibly pitch. It only added to the confirmation that the creature in front of him was not another vampire but something else, something stronger and more dangerous than he himself, and it infuriated the immortal. The man had mocked him at every chance and seemed to easily beat back any attack Lestat had thus far attempted.

Adding insult to injury this creature had remained entirely on the defensive after his initial assault that had broken his hold on Sherlock. He had felt the presence in the room and had only just broken his grip before he was cast staggering away from his prize. A lightning bolt of pain had laced through the vampire as he had greedily swallowed one last mouthful of the hot blood he had drank from the consulting detective. Sherlock had been pulled dangerously near the edge of the death that must come before he could be reborn a vampire. This ‘other’ had since made a point of simply beating Lestat bloody each time the blond rallied to attempt to take out the intruder. 

"I will give you points for being a _lively_ one. Interesting how the whole world opens up when you die once, wouldn't you agree?" The grin on the man’s face was wide and toothy, sinister and full of an uncomfortable mirth.

 "Heh," It was not in Lestat’s nature to be intimidated, but he could feel the bones resetting in his cheek from the last blow landed against him and he uncharacteristically accepted the knowledge that he would not win this fight. "I don't know who or what you are, but I will tell you that that mortal," Lestat pointed to the barely conscious form of the consulting detective, who lie prone and crumpled against the last unscathed section of sofa, "...he gave himself to me. Therefore, he is mine, despite whatever claim you think you may have."

"Is that so?" A dark eyebrow rose in perfect time with the questioning hitch of the man’s tone.  "See…now you don't strike me as the kind who plays fair. I like that about you, I think we have that in common.  Oh, I bet the two of us could bring down this whole world, but I don't think you have the stamina for my games."

The man tsked loudly, shaking his head.  He looked almost forlorn for only a moment before the onyx eyes gazed back at him and the stranger cast another radiant smile at Lestat. "I'm afraid he belonged to me long before you ever came to this sandbox.”  His head tilted to his shoulder, before the chin jutted forward and charitably the creature offered, “Now, I don't mind if you want to play with my toy some more, but noooooo..." the word was drawn out and melodic before he paused.  The smile melted away, as the whites of his eyes turned dark, " _BREAKING HIM_!"

The scream was accompanied by a blast of force that staggering Lestat back a few steps.  The mans wild expression again slowly faded into a pleasant smile that left the vampire more and more unsettled. The suite had gone dark and cold with the energy that flooded the room and just as quickly as it had come it was suddenly gone.

Lestat licked his lips, “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He replied caustically.

There was nothing else that could be done.  Lestat knew he could be foolish at times, but he was not stupid. This creature was a force he had never encountered before.  It was something darker and older than his own kind and there were few he could think that might be able to name it. He was hesitant to even consider seeking out help, knowing too well that even if it were to come, it would be with a cost and the endless ‘I told you so’.

The dark haired creature stood casually, bare feet on the broken glass yet not a mark on him other despite the successful blows the vampire had landed against him. He pointed behind Lestat, at Sherlock.  “You don’t let anything happen to my little toy now, you understand?” His tone was cheerful but pregnant with warning, as he shook a scolding finger, “No matter how far you run or fly or swim I can find him…just like _that_.” His right hand emphasized this point with a quick snap. “I’d hate to have to pop your little head off for messing up my plans.”

“That would be a shame. I’m rather attached to it.” Lestat replied coolly, relaxing as best he could, while he considered his next course of action. He was being allowed to leave, he knew that much, and from what he gathered, he could have Sherlock so long as he didn’t kill him or turn him.

Lestat heard the labored breathing, the thready heart-beat, and turned his head to take in the sight of his ‘borrowed toy’. There was a whoosh, the tinkles of glass settling after.  The movement had been faster than even he could see, the other man departing in a flash. Lestat scanned the sky through the broken mortar of the wall and ceiling.  He could see nothing.  Even with his preternatural sight and hearing he could not detect where the other had gone.  He had simply vanished.

“Arrogant cock!” Lestat spat, allowing his anger to flare once again, now that the imminent threat had removed itself.

The vampire petulantly kicked at the mess below him, sending shards flying out into the night before he turned and stomped back towards the mortal man. Standing over him, he sighed, as Sherlock struggled to raise his eyes to meet him. Then he leant down and snatched the man up like a rag doll, tossing him over his shoulder and stalking out of the demolished penthouse onto the balcony.  “Well, best get you patched up, hm? Turns out you are quite the prize and now I’m curious what I win by keeping you.”

The vampire leapt effortlessly from the rooftop suite, out into the cold London night. It wouldn’t do to stay in London, people would be looking for the infamous detective and that creature could too easily find them again. As Lestat’s feet touched down gracefully on the pavement beside the sleek Mercedes CLK GTR, the block was rocked with a massive explosion.  His gaze snapped upwards, eyes wide in recognition.  The tremendous fireball which lit the sky above the city was the very penthouse he had just left.

There were people screaming all around in the street, running frantically about or frozen in place.  Lestat cursed under his breath. Wasting no time, he tossed the detective into the passenger seat, before he quickly got behind the wheel and the silver Benz roared off into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

 

"It is absolutely curious that we should find one another." the voice was Lestat’s, rousing the consulting detective from the murky depths of a drugged slumber. Everything was just out of focus and there was a golden halo of light around the head of vampire who spoke over him.

"Morphine..." Sherlock mumbled groggily. He shook his head slowly and stretched his eyelids, fluttering the dark lashes open to focus more clearly on the pale face of Lestat.

"Mm, yes." Lestat sat on the edge of the bed next to the half-naked detective and smiled as he watched the man begin to access his new surroundings. "You're rather fond of it. I should have been more considerate and taken some to go. Easy enough to correct if you truly desire but I'd much rather enjoy your fully attentive company.” He smiled at the brunet and reached out to turn the gaunt face towards his own. 

"You could cut glass with those cheeks. I think even  _I_ may be developing a crush on you, Sherlock Holmes." Without hesitation he lent forward and kissed the pale lips of the man in the bed, chuckling when the other pulled away after a startled moment. The vampire licked his lips and let his eyes admire the sharp lines of the man’s face and bare torso before he rose from the bed and stopped in the doorway. "I know you're starting to think on how to be rid of me. Trust me when I say that it is impossible now, Sherlock. You gave yourself to me, remember?"

Sherlock felt a pit in his stomach at the words and he parted his dry lips to reply, only to be cut off by the blond. "It honestly wouldn't matter if you didn't. Now, you have had a rather rough day, I think, so while you rest up and try to rationalize what has happened I am going to run a little errand. I’ll save you the bother of looking for a way to contact someone, I’ve taken the liberty of relieving you of your phone. The closest human is further away than you could reach in your state and… well, I wouldn’t want to spoil all your fun. I’ll let you try to figure out what country you’re in while I’m away.” He raked his fingers through the golden mane of hair.  The man looked even more impossibly and infuriatingly beautiful through the hazy focus of the drugs in Sherlock’s system.

“Where’s John and who…was it that attacked you?” Sherlock tried not to get caught up on the feeling of the words heavy on his tongue, as they passed his lips. Instead, he focused on the importance of those answers despite feeling he was sure to be dissatisfied with what was provided.

The other man looked considerate for a moment, weighing his reply, as he casually leant on the doorframe. “I hate to admit it, but I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to either of those questions quite yet.” He added becoming animated with his next exclamation, “But that’s exactly why I have  _you_  now, isn’t it, Sherlock? The world’s _greatest_ detective will solve the case, that is, once he’s back in his right mind.  So many questions and we have Louis to thank for bringing us all together.” Lestat turned then and left, not bothering to lock the door to the small cottage on his way out.

He would leave Sherlock to consider his words, as he continued to perpetuate Louis as the catalyst in all that had transpired. It served no purpose to reveal that he had been to London several times weeks prior to Louis’ arrival, assessing the detective, planting the seeds of a mystery that begged to be solved.

The man hated him, for now, for what he had done to his beloved doctor and past lover. That would pass with time, once Sherlock began to truly understand what the dark gift meant for John and for himself, should he be able to eventually turn the man.

The black-eyed devil was what had Lestat perplexed, who and what was he? It? For a creature that had warred with the most ancient of their kind, danced with witches, and argued with the devil, nothing should surprise him and yet this one had. Why stop Lestat from turning the brunet only to leave him with the vampire. There was a morbid curiosity growing in him which begged to kill the ‘toy’ just to see if the other would re-appear like magic to prevent his demise.  Yet, he wasn’t interested in a second round until he had time to better prepare. As well, he really did want Sherlock. The man was wildly driven, obnoxiously intelligent, beautiful and Lestat truly believed he had the stamina for immortality.

More selfishly, Lestat wanted him as a companion. The bigger the challenge the stronger his desire and Sherlock was an incredible mortal. So rooted in the science of deduction, bending laws and propriety to conduct experiments in order to prove his theories correct or invalid, Lestat knew that drive in himself. Felt a kinship with the man and desired someone who was as insatiable for answers as he was, to perhaps, help him seek out the greater purpose. For when the trivial mysteries of the mortal world lost their luster, Sherlock would undoubtedly turn to the bigger questions.

Momentarily, that gave Lestat pause to wonder if it was a good idea, after all. He, himself had been driven almost to madness at the things shown to him through creatures greater than himself in his pursuit of answers. Then he dismissed it as quickly as it had come, the genius could withstand it, he decided. It would be more troubling for his new fledgling but Louis had proven stronger than he had though and perhaps it was the same of John.

The moment passed and the vampire left the small cottage walking out into the night, leaving the consulting detective behind to recover. 

Sherlock watched the vampire close the door behind him.  It was but a dark blob of movement, across a distance that he could not judge through his bleary eyed focus.  With the creature gone his system seemed to flood with relief, allowing his mind to shift to more important tasks.  The vampire always kept him on edge, especially now, and with him gone he could focus his dulled intellect of trying to escape. 

Awfully pretentious of the thing to assume that he would just lie back and wait for his return.  For all Sherlock knew he could be half way around the world from London, making his main priority for the moment to ascertain just where the cottage was.  It was small, probably a one or two room construction, from what he could see and smell of the interior.  Despite being in a fairly comfortable bed and hooked up to an IV, no doubt with the morphine the other had promised, he was no where near a medical facility, if he had ever entered one at all.

The detective brought up a hand—and found the movement painfully sluggish, his muscles not burning but thrumming with a deep ache blunted by the drug cocktail Lestat had administered.  His hand finally made it to his neck and he rubbed his fingers from the naked shoulder up the side to the turn of his jaw, meeting nothing but clean perfect skin.  He wished he could see it.  The impossible perfection even after the savage destruction wrought on him by John and then continued by the bastard that had turned him. 

How was it possible?  No medical physician was gifted with the ability to stitch with such precision, as to heal the skin without a single wrinkle of scar tissue.  So it was the vampire then, no doubt.  But still he wondered how.

How was John changed, for that matter?  Where was John?  What day was it?  How long had John been gone…All of these questions flooded his mind, plugging in the bottle neck the morphine had created on his system, causing a back up that seemed to stall all progress.  This was infuriatingly useless.  He would get no where like this.  Perhaps there was a reason why the morphine had been provided, beyond his own need for a painkiller.  Lestat was up to something.  Why else would he leave him alone?

Sherlock took found the IV in his arm with his clumsy fingers.  He took a moment to feel it, make sure that he pinched the head of it firmly, before he ripped it from his arm, tossing it aside.  It burned as the needle left his skin and he applied pressure for a few minutes to the puncture, laying his head back on the pillow.  His head was swimming, even with that little bit of effort.  There was certainly something else in there along side the morphine. 

It took a moment to center himself and in doing so, he lapsed back into sleep.  When he awoke again he could not be certain how much time had passed, but his vision was notably clearer, even though a strong throb reverberated between his temples and behind his eyes.  His hands instinctually came to massage the sides of his head, applying pressure, as he made an audible groan that sounded more to himself like a growl.  His body was already well into the first few stages of withdrawal. 

The man could feel his stomach knotting.  The urge to heave was overwhelming and his skin felt slick with a cold sweat.  He had conquered this more than once.  He could remember the dance well and he was not about to let it stop him from getting away from that prattish vampire.  His skin felt like it was crawling, his mind so willing to supply the visual of tiny spiders swarming his body to accompany the uncomfortable sensation.  He pushed the sheet and bed covers away, kicking them back with his feet.  He was naked and freezing. 

The air within the croft was chilled and now that he looked about the room that he was in, he realized instantly that he was very likely still within the United Kingdom, based solely on the beam-work overhead and the plaster on the walls.  He pushed himself with his hands to the edge of the bed.  It was a simple mattress on a raised brown metal frame and below his feet he could see crude wooden floors, covered by a fraying wool rug.  He hesitated then, just before jumping off the mattress, at the memory of the last time he had done so after a drug cocktail.

Sherlock remembered hitting the floor, the feeling of his jelly legs crumpling under him as his face slammed into the floorboards.  He remembered hearing John’s quick approach, the grip of his hands around him and the press of his body close, as he was hauled back up and flopped safely back into bed.  John was not here to help him now.

He flexed the muscles in his thighs and calves, watching the movement under the pale skin.  He kicked each leg, testing his strength.  He could not be sure how long he had been in the bed, he had no clue what day it was or what time it was.  If he fell on the floor who knew how long it would take to get him back up.  As he continued to flex and move each limb, feeling his circulation return to normal, he looked about the room some more. 

It was tiny and bare.  The bed frame was old and rusted, repainted metal that was peeling.  The mattress was simple, set on the creaking springs of the turn of the century frame.  Beside the bed there was a round night stand, just large enough for a ceramic pitcher and wash basin.  There was a towel close at hand, so he assumed that the pitcher must be full.  Further away there was a six drawer dresser, a ratty looking wingback chair covered with an equally worn plaid blanket.  It was rather dusty, adding to the over all musty smell of disuse that pervaded the entire room. 

There was a window straight out from him and another at the end of the bed.  They were both of old construction, wood and single pane glass, drafty as hell.  The room itself was cold and his naked skin lit with goose bumps in immediate response.  It was light outside but there was the telltale darkening of sunset and even though he could not see it, he could hear the ocean.

The detective flexed his feet a few more times.  The muscles in his legs ached and the more he worked them he soon came to realize that his entire body ached—the withdrawal.  Despite the pain though he needed to get up and moving, the withdrawal required his motion.  He felt restless and his skin was itching, especially aggravated in the elbows and behind the knees.  More so though he needed to get outside, get a view of the area before the sunset and he could no longer see.

He inched his body forward in a slow coaxing motion, preparing his feet to hit the rug below and to have them take his full weight.  The pads of his toes landed, then his heels.  He spread them to support his weight efficiently, preparing himself for poor balance and muscle fatigue.  Then slowly he leaned forward and carried his weight up into a standing position.  His back seemed to protest, the muscles seizing, but he remained upright and grimaced through the short lived pain.  His vision wobbled slightly, only for a moment or two, and then he took a step, finding his footing with ease.  The motion was simpler than he had anticipated and he walked the short distance to the chair only a few feet away, just the bare hint of a limp from his time spent in the bed.  Quite possibly he may have only been there a few days.

He grabbed the old blanket and gave it a shake.  A plume of dust rose into the air at the action, before he wrapped it about his shoulders like a shroud, to cover his naked form and to take on the role of his clothing, which was notably absent.  Then the detective turned on his heel and in a determined fashion he began to make his way around the bed to the closed door on the other wall.  It opened with a creak of old hinges, rusted by the sea air that rushed into the room. 

The room beyond was small but typical of an older generation croft.  There was a hearth in the center, he could hear the fire crackling to his left, and there was a small table with three chairs and a side board with a few dishes out on top.  There was little else in the way of furniture, just the essential accessories to living a remote lifestyle.  There were electric lights and he could hear a generator running somewhere outside.  It was what had powered the IV pump he had been attached to and yet in this room there was little sign of its use, which meant that fuel was hard to come by.

There was no one else in the room, although there was evidence that someone had recently been there.  There were a few vegetables out on the table, washed and ready to be used, and the fire did seem to be well stoked.  So, Lestat had been lying.  Perhaps there was no one else for miles but he had obviously been left in someone’s care.

The door that led outside was to his right, slightly broader and thicker than the bedroom door, and when he opened it a cold gush of air rustled the blanket he had slung around him.  He could smell the ocean, smell the salt, he was certainly still in the UK.  He walked outside, finding no porch or sidewalk, just scrubby brown grass that stretched out in every direction.  The stone croft was situated in a natural dip in the land and now that he was outside Sherlock could see that the horizon was actually a cliff edge.  The ocean roared now that he was outside, pounding against the rocks unseen below.  He could see the actual horizon stretching out in a blue haze before him. 

He walked around the croft to find the same scene, although this time the cliff rose sharply upwards and at its highest point was an old lighthouse.  The once manned tower was now automated, shining its beacon to warn those in the night that there was danger ahead.  It was large and close by, perhaps only few hundred meters away, and Sherlock soon realized that he was on a very small island, in the middle of the North Atlantic.  He had an idea where but he could not be absolutely certain.

Behind the croft he found a crude wash line, where a few of his belongings were strung up to dry.  He went over to it and snagged them down, wrapping them in a bundle to take back inside.  It was cold and the wind was bitter, even the wildlife was hunkered down against the high rocky cliffs.  He could hear the birds, the gannets and the puffins squawking, but few were in the air now, they too wished to escape it.  Quickly he made his way back inside.  His bare feet were red from the cold and the shivering only made him more nauseated than the morphine withdrawal had. 

The sun was almost completely set now and when he ducked back inside the doorway of the croft, he realized that he was not alone.  Here was his keeper, the watcher left in charge while the vampire Lestat was away on his errand, a young woman with large green eyes and a cocky smile.  He stopped in the doorway, startled a moment to see someone there at the hearth.  She did not hesitate to scold him for leaving the door open.

“Close the damn door, you idiot,” she snapped.  It was more playful than it was scolding, but what surprised him more was the woman’s accent.  It was not British and it certainly was not Scottish, which he had expected.  It sounded, perhaps American.  He did as he was told and closed the door behind him, watching her roll those large eyes in an exaggerated exasperation, as she chided under her breath, “Londoners.”

Sherlock stood there, clad in his plaid blanket, holding his clothing to his chest, assessing her with his narrowed gaze.  It was extremely odd, he thought, to be placed in the care of a young woman who lived a wild life out in the middle of no where.  He had expected an old timer, still nostalgic for the good old days.  She ignored him and went about her task, he assumed she was cooking.  There was a large pot over the fire and she had been placing chopped vegetables into it.  She sat up from her squatted position and went back to the table, where she grabbed a chair and returned to the hearth.  She sat down and took up a large metal ladle, which she used to stir the contents of the pot.  It certainly smelled like food and his stomach gave a rebellious growl in response to the aroma that now filled the main room. 

Her eyes flashed up at him, dark blond lashes framing those piercing green eyes, as she pinned him with a reproachful glare, demanding, “I think you’ve had a long enough look.”  The waspish tone did little to deter him, the detective was use to such a response, and a staring contest ensued, where neither wished to lose by being the first to look away.  After a moment she relented.  Her eyes rolled again and she loosed a grating sigh.  Waving a delicately boned hand at him dismissively, she commented, “Look, either you can go put your clothes back on or you grab a chair and join me.  Do something!  You’re starting to freak me out.”

The accent was definitely North American, but he wasn’t quite sure if it was American anymore.  He was cold and he knew that of the clothes he had recovered from the wash line, he was still missing a shirt, so he dumped the pants and trousers on a counter by the door and did as the woman had requested.  She did not watch him, she did not look at him again until he was seated on the other side of the fire, enjoying the heat it emanated.  He extended his long legs and she watched him wiggle his toes in the basking warmth. 

Sherock studied her askance, noting her petite frame, clad in heavy jeans and a thick zippered jumper with a hood.  Her long straight red hair was pulled back into a high tie at the back of her head.  It seemed to glow hot in the light of the fire.  She had a thin oval face, red arched brows over her large eyes, above a thin nose and small mouth.  Her lips pursed and then, without looking up at him, she said, “Ya’ know, you’re kinda being a little douche-y right now.  You can ask a question, instead of trying to stare it outta’ me.”

The detective’s eyes glanced to her face then and she turned to look at him straight on, challenge evident in her delicate features.  She arched an eyebrow at him, waiting.  He cleared his throat and then, finally, demanded, “You live here?”

“From time to time, yes.” She responded, still slowly stirring the pot, “I live lots of places.  This is one of them.”

“You were paid to stay with me.” It was more of a statement then an question.

“Yes.  Handsomely.”

“By Lestat.”

“Yes.” She said, lifting her brows mockingly, before she scoffed, “Ya’ know, for a renowned genius detective you probably should have already known that.  Who else would put up with you and your creepy staring.”

The detective was silent for a moment, his gaze shifted away back to the fire.  He wasn’t hurt, simply calculating.  She did not look away.  After a while, in a softer tone, she explained, “I was hired, more or less, to watch you for a while.  Make sure you don’t do anything stupid or get away.  The sum is worth the solitude but let’s make this easier on ourselves.”  She extended a hand towards him in greeting and the detective snubbed it.  She shrugged and made a disgusted face, “Or not.”

“What day is it?” he demanded, icily.

“Tuesday.” She chirped, nonplussed by the snub.

“The date?” he reiterated, peevishly.

“March first.”

"I take it then that we are in Scotland," he said, narrowing his gaze at her as the corner of her small pink lips curled into an appreciative smirk, "so is it the Hebrides or the Shetland isles?"

She left the ladle in the pot and sat back in her chair, crossing her legs and folding her arms over her small chest.  The redhead shrugged, and irritatingly chirped back, "Could be either now, couldn't it?"

The detective wondered if she was deliberately putting him off due to her employers’ instruction or if she was doing it simply for her own enjoyment, when he realized his leg was fidgeting and that he was scratching the inside of a elbow.  The morphine withdrawal was taking up too much of his conscious mind—there was a reason Mycroft had cleaned him of it.  He tried to read more from the girl, managing only to deduce that she was an animal sympathiser, particularly for stray cats and the noisy puffins outside, that she was a world traveler and could very well have no home in particular as she had said, and also that she was roughly between the age of twenty-eight and thirty-two, was an only child—no had a sibling, who had died as a child—and that she loved chocolate.  They were all rather good deductions, could possibly be useful later, but were as of right now, rather useless.  

"You're staring again." she said, casually.  His eyes left her person and met her face again.  She wrinkled her nose and added, "Kinda' rude."

He looked away towards the fire and she leaned forward, stirring the pot some more.  "Orkney, then." he said.

The young woman made a tsking sound with her tongue.  "You're guessing."

"St. Kilda." 

Her red brows raised in enticement, "Warmer."

"The outer hebrides, far away from people and civilization." he was unraveling the mystery a little more now.  "There is a light house that would at one time have been manned but is no longer in need of it.  Then we are far from the mainland, in one word, isolated."

"That's one way of putting it." she replied.  She sat back from the soup again and this time gave him a softer smile, more sympathetic than any of the other looks she had given him.  "You're mixed up in some pretty hefty stuff from what I gather.  Lestat said he wants you to lie low for a little bit, while he investigates.  Well, I'm afraid this is as low as one can get, without freezing your ass off in Siberia."  

"Isolated but still localized." he mused aloud, wrapping the blanket about himself a little tighter.  The edge of it had slipped open, revealing a long length of his thigh, and he was not sure yet if he was freezing or sweating.  His body was slick with perspiration but his skin was crawling, even beside the heat of the fire.  He readjusted his covering and realized then too that he was incredibly hungry, the smell of the boiling pot becoming more and more irresistible.  

The girl got up from her chair and when to the other side of the room.  He watched her as she went to the side board and poured a glass of water from a cracked ceramic jug.  When she returned, it was offered to him and the detective did not hesitate to guzzle it down, surprised that he was still thirsty when it was gone.  She got him another and he did the same, finding himself slightly more satiated after the second drought of it.  He held the empty cup and she nodded her head towards the pot, saying, "Won't be much longer and I will have something else for ya'."

"How long have I been here?" he asked.

"Mmm, a while." she answered, vaguely.  After a glare, she amended, "A couple of days.  You were not in the best of shape when you showed up and I think the morphine helped to keep you out."

As he had suspected.  "And you just happened to be here?" he said, more acidly than he ought to, "Getting ready for the breeding season?"

She gave him a nod and turned away to hide a wide straight toothed grin, as she walked back over to the side board.  She proceeded to pull out bowls and spoons—soup then—and returned to ladle out the broth.  She set both bowls on the table and then moved her chair to sit down.  He followed suit, getting up and sliding his own chair to the round table.  Seated across from her he paid the woman little mind, focus intent now on the soup in front of him, his stomach echoing his hunger.  They ate in relative silence for a while.  The broth was well flavored with onions, carrots, and potatoes, that were soft in his mouth as he chewed.  The meat was savory too, but not quite chicken.  Taking a moment, he paused in his gluttonous consumption of the filling soup, to inquire, "Puffin?"

"Boy, nothing gets past you." she said, with a shake of her head.  

The detective's mouth pursed and then he continued to eat.  It was delicious.  It was just odd that one who studied the bird's ecology would willingly eat one.  They ate in silence and then she put a kettle over the fire for tea, serving him a mug full at the table when it was ready.  She put out powdered creamer and sugar cubes, making no apologies, as she heaped both into her cup.  Sherlock grabbed two sugars and ignored the offensive powder, even though he recognized that fresh milk was probably not readily available.  The brew was hot and with a tentative first sip he was glad to have his hands around a cup of it.  

Tea made Sherlock think of John, of Mrs. Hudson, and of 221B.  He didn't want to think of any of them and proceeded to dismiss the thoughts by picking on his keeper.  "The names Sherlock Holmes." he said, just over top of the mug under his nose.

The woman brought the cup down and swallowed, smiling broadly at him like he was a fool—maybe he was.  "Yes, I know." she laughed.

This game was getting aggravating.  Sherlock hated the trivial way that normal people conducted conversations and was bowing to acquiesce as such to this girl, who was deliberately avoiding the practice.  He was thinking of something rude to point out that he had deduced about her, but she beat him to it, "The name Marisa Smyth." 

"No, it’s not." he shot back.

She shrugged, her smile growing wider.  "It will do though." she said, as she took another sip from her tea.  

"Your binders on the bookshelf are labeled 'Carrington'." the detective indicated, "So, that means that you've left him and moved on, taking up your maiden name again.  Probably has something to do with the fact that you would rather hang out with your birds than other people.  Is that because they talk less or because they don't ask anything of you?"

She narrowed her gaze back at him, her eyes crinkling with the smile on her thin mouth.  "Which makes hanging out with you all that much more interesting, doesn't it?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that, so he deflected.  "Lestat must be paying you well or else it is obvious that you wouldn't."

"We've already covered that, remember?" she retaliated deftly, taking another sip of her tea. 

"So, there is no way off this tiny isle and the two of us are stuck together until the vampire returns." the detective volleyed, intentionally dropping the bait for the girl.

She didn't take it.  With cool resolve she tipped her head towards his and chided, "God help us both."

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork is my own, linked in from Deviant [here](http://roryalice.deviantart.com/art/Dapper-John-660726521)

 

The vampire lay very still. It was still daylight, a part of him just seemed to be able to tell this, but the sun was making its decent. Not much longer now. Soon darkness would consume the city and he would have to face another night. It was still strange and new, this reversal, the need to shelter during the sunlight hours. There was still so much that he had to learn about this new life—this second life, if one could call it that.

His body itched with the need to be outside, to be free of the daytime safe-house, which protected him both from prying mortals and from the deathly light beyond. He was restless—had been all day—wishing, worrying, thinking, regretting. He slept now because his body demanded it—this new body that was so unfamiliar in comparison to when it had once been mortal. Immortality had changed many things and it was not easy to wrap one’s mind around how it affected everything—every little minute aspect of one’s self.

The other vampire was close to him in the double bed that they shared in the safe-house. The hovel in which they resided boasted little else. It may be safe but it was little better than derelict. He was pretty sure that the tiny turn of the century home would not see more than another ten years. They were in a room in the basement, specially retrofitting for their kind, or so his companion informed him. It was little more than a walled in space with a deadbolt on the door and no windows. The bleakness of the blackness that he realized now he would never be able to escape was at times suffocating.

The body behind him moved, a slow gentle motion that made the bed springs creak and groan, and soon he felt the softly draped hand run up the length of his bicep. The other’s head came close to his ear and he whispered, “Did you want to try again, John?”

The vampire gave a soft nod. Yes. Yes, he would try again. It was torturous but he had to learn to control this new body, these new powers, and all the struggles that came with it. He had to conquer this.  
He felt the soft press of a comforting kiss laid behind the back of his ear. He could feel the empathy rolling off of the other. He could feel many more things now, emotions and thoughts the least of them, and even these were a constant irritating drone that he could neither handle nor control in any fashion. It was like white noise, a telly with no signal, just the grating hiss of static. It could be such a din at times that it was painful. He felt a second kiss and then the hand on his shoulder gave a circular rub. It was comforting. Louis was comforting.

John was thankful to have the other vampire here, with him, guiding him, helping him adjust. He feared what may have come to pass if the man had not intervened. He feared what still could if they were ever to part ways. He was like a lifeline pulling him through a vast ocean of unknown trepidations, constantly washing over him with the ever eminent threat of drowning him beneath their heavy weight. John hated to be pulled but he also feared letting go.

Softly the voice behind him asked, “Do you thirst?” It was cautious and caring, but also threaded with the underlying graveness of the reality of their damned immortal lives.

John gave a nod again and admitted, “Always. It never seems to leave me.”

The vampire rolled back, towards the other body in the bed. The mattress protested as the other made room for him to lie on his back beside him. The raven haired vampire was propped up on an elbow, close and reassuring, that placid calm face sincere and kind, as he looked down in earnest at the fledgling under his wing. The other man reached out with his hand and gave John that same comforting arm rub. The touch was different somehow than when he was human. It was a connection, a link to the other, as though he seemed almost a part of the other man. The thoughts passed through his mind, rising above the white noise of everything else that penetrated his head, ‘Do you wish to feed here before we go out?’

‘No, not tonight,’ he returned the thought, beginning to feel more comfortable now with these unspoken conversations. ‘I can’t keep taking from you. It’s a crutch. I must learn to feed and to be satiated.’

“As you wish,” the other spoke aloud, the corner of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. John could feel the pride and the satisfaction his comment had made the other vampire feel. “You are always so determined, so strong. This is a good step. Shall we go then?”

John nodded again and swallowed the sudden panic that rose within him. The thirst seemed to double in strength at his resistance to the offering.

The Thirst. It was a clawing annoyance that was ever present, ever looming, with the possibility of consuming him entirely. When he fed on the other vampire’s immortal blood it was like nothing else he had ever experienced. It was powerfully erotic—something which John had not expected—even more so than the throes of a mortal orgasm had been. Even though Louis and John had grown close over the last several weeks of travel and teaching, the reactions that he felt to the taste of his mentor’s blood hitting his palate and the intimate mental connection that ensued were all still so foreign to him. It all was.

The vampire rose off of the mattress and dressed. Louis always slept in his clothes. He said it made no difference, but it was just one more of those mortal tendencies that the John was having trouble negating. The other vampire also wore the same things, almost it seemed to the point of worn through. Their immortal bodies were hardened and did not flow with regular human excretions of any kind. This was probably one of the most convenient things about a damned life that was also the most unnerving.

Clothing was merely a shell then that his body was incapable of soiling and Louis was impeccably clean and neat, so he was never dirtied when out. At current he favored a navy cable knit sweater that was worn but not in tatters just yet. It was a striking contrast to the green converse runners, which seemed brand-new in comparison, the rubber toe still a pristine white.

John took the two steps across the room to a wooden chair in the corner, where he had folded his own clothing the morning before. As he pulled on the snug jeans and slung the azure short-sleeve button up over her shoulders, Louis was at his side. The other vampire’s delicate hands calmly came to the sides of his torso, as he leaned down and encouraged, “Slow, John.”

It was infuriating and encouraging. Like a rugby coach, never letting you slack an inch. John hated the way his body moved. To him it seemed normal, seemed no different than it ever had. Yet he knew that Louis’ reminder was not unwarranted. To the mortal world, these movements were blindingly unrealistic. A quick blurred dart that would startle anyone and draw curious attention, which they did not want, or so Louis kept reminding him.

John’s jaw clenched and turned back to the man behind him, with a nod. ‘Yes, slow down’, he sent the other the thought. Louis stayed close, hands moving away, as John made a measured effort to slow down the task of fastening each button on the shirt. In his mind, he heard the returned encouragement, ‘Very good.’

They finished their short preparations. It took very little to get ready to go. John mussed his hair with his hands and scrubbed a quick swipe over his face, as he peered at his new reflection in the dingy mirror of the single washroom upstairs.

Louis wished he would leave-off with this mortal sentiment, reminding him constantly that it was not needed. His hair would never grow any longer. If he cut it, by the next night it would return to its original length and grow no more. Louis had demonstrated this one evening, taking a pocketknife and sheering off his length of thick straight hair, and John was startled at the speed of the growth. It was not by any means instantaneous, but with their immortal abilities and keen senses John could actually see it growing back. The next night John had tried it, Louis explained that he might as well, to experience it for himself. In a few short hours it was the same again, as though nothing had happened.

And just like his hair, his physical form would never change. He would never grow a beard, or even stubble, he would never wrinkle or grow old. He would for all eternity be as he was now.

John frowned at his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t seem to look like the man he had been. He resembled his younger self, a man fifteen years younger. He had been no fool, age had not been as kind to him as it had some, and neither had the heat, sweat, and sand of Afghanistan. All that was gone now. His skin was ruddy no more, the wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth had vanished, and all that was left was white smoothness.

His eyes had changed too. He had always likened the coloring to that of a mud puddle, dark blue around the edges but brown from sand and muck in the middle. No one had ever particularly fancied them when he was mortal and now they drew attention like never before, lit from behind the iris, making them almost glow, especially in the darkness of night.

His body too had undergone similar changes. It was hard now where it had never quite been before and his profile was shockingly erect and…for lack of a better word, perfect.

Louis gave a polite knock at the bathroom door, rousing John from his own staring assessment of himself, and then the two of them left the house together.

Being outside only made the thirst worse, compounding the already terrible cloying feeling of it. They had been practicing each night, conditioning John to the temptations and addicting draw of the presence of mortals. They had a practiced route and routine, which they only deviated from slightly each night to create variation. This way John knew what to expect, when to expect it, and for now could try to prepare himself for enduring it.

They walked away from the run down block that their safe-house was located in, taking their time, and practicing a mortal speed. There were many people here, although one would not expect it. They were crammed into tiny buildings and rooms, not enough money to stay somewhere better. Here it was easier and more convenient to find a victim to satiate his thirst—at least for a while.

Where there was poverty, there was desperation, and where there was desperation, there was those that were corrupt. Corruption fed upon desperation and Louis and John in turn fed upon them. It was the only way to justify the death of any mortal—if there was a means of justification, which John still fervently believed there could never be. He knew that Louis felt the same way, he could feel it, but the vampire never voiced this.

This night, however, Louis was going to leave John to his own devices, within a regulated set of boundaries. He would not intervene unless he had too. John was to feed tonight on his own. Louis hung back as they approached the agreed upon area to which he was to hunt. They had been working this area for a while, taking out vile men who had committed crimes against others. They gleaned this from the criminal’s mind. It was a humbling experience, to realize in that moment before pouncing that one was both judge and jury, of which the sentence was always final.

John walked a sedate pace, trying to block out all the voices screaming through his mind and zero in on one specifically. He went through them like one might sift sand through a screen, leaving behind only those that qualified. It was an inhuman way of explaining something as feral and savage as it was, but the more he hunted and fed, the more wonted the practice became. Instinct it seemed like, a natural stirring that pushed one to act beyond their own volition, and when John finally found one in his screen, he did not hesitate.

The vampire took the man in a small space near the back of another rundown bungalow, between the garage and the rotting wooden fence. His teeth sunk into the thin dark flesh of the man’s neck and the hot blood rushed into his mouth with a gush. The man gave a startled gasp but was unable to cry out, as John quickly, hungrily, greedily, devoured as much as he could before the heart gave out. It was hard to stop sometimes, to hold back, to break the deathly embrace, even when the blood was no longer viable.

The young rogue slipped from his grip, as John flinched and groaned. The bloodlust was intense, the feeling of it coursing through his system, the taste of it in his mouth was rapturous torture. He took a moment there, to settle it, gain control of it, whilst still using his mind to watch the area for other mortals. He knew that Louis would be as well, but he wanted to do it for himself. Soon, he may have no choice.

The moment passed and the vampire bent over his victim, checking the bite. It was fairly clean. He was improving. John brought his index finger to his mouth and slit the pad with one of his sharp fangs. Blood welled from the incision and this he smeared over the bite mark on the corpse. He watched the blood work, healing the broken fibers of the skin’s tissue. Soon there would be no evidence of his crime. The wound on his finger was already closed and he brought it to his mouth to suck the last trace of blood from his skin.  The taste was delightful, even in a small sample such as this, even mingled with his own.

John stood and straightened his shirt, quickly checking to make sure he had not marred his own clothing in process. He mussed with his hair again, deciding to leave the body were it was, slumped in the snow against the paint peeling boards of the waning fence. Someone would find the man eventually. Just another unexplained death.

The vampire left the scene, walking in the slow measured pace Louis had practiced with him, trying once more to key in with his mind on the mortals that were within a certain proximity. No one was aware he was even there, all too busy with their own taxing demands on life, huddled in the buildings out of the biting chill of the winter night. This made him smile. He felt a little stronger having accomplished this simple task that would forever be a part of this immortal eternal life.

As if on cue Louis’ voice broke through into his mind with high approbations, ‘Well done, John.’ This made the smile linger. It felt good, even though what he had accomplished was such a horrid visceral villainy.

The vampire was joined by the other man soon after, a hand coming up around his shoulders in a congratulatory gesture that was also empathetic to the underlying pain of such conduct. John had learned that Louis understood this conflict better than most and had struggled with its fierce tidal pull. Lestat had only complicated matters and was condemning of the sorrow of his fledglings lament. Louis’ own trials with it, however, now helped John immensely, as they shared the memory of these lessons through the blood-letting they shared.

John had seen and felt these experiences long before Louis had thrust him into them, as preparation for what was to come, and this strategy had proven successful. In a sense, to be damned, John was glad that it was Lestat that had done it, if only for the gift he now had in this relationship with Louis. The thought connection between a maker and their fledgling was forever closed and John felt quite glad to know he would never have Lestat’s voice in his head.

The vampire Lestat, an infamously impulsive troublemaker—or so Louis described him of late. John had seen otherwise in the other’s mind when they shared a connection, hidden away in dark deep pockets. They had been more, so much more, in so many different aspects. Louis kept this for the most part well guarded, deftly avoiding the subject, skirting around it with half-truths and what John had come to call ‘Lestat-isms’. There was a lot about this creature, this powerful vampire that many others of their kind regarded simply as ‘the way that he was’. It seemed to negate quite a few of his outlandish misconducts. But the truth of it was that Louis was not happy with…with what had happened. John could sense his regret and knew that it was probably the main reason that the vampire had dedicated his time and guidance to his case, more over than the pleasure of his company.

The arm around his shoulders lingered, almost as though in protest of the last thought. John really was not at that point yet where he could keep the other out of his mind. He was still an open book, a buffet to those with more experience or power, but Louis respected his privacy and was kind enough to acknowledge when he was projecting. Yet the grip around him was caring and drew him closer than it had before and John found himself willingly wrapping an arm around the others waist in return. They walked for a long while this way, in the silence that they normally chose whilst along the long twisting winding pathways that they explored on their route which always lead into the heart of the city.

John had never been to Canada before and after escaping London, they had hired a private jet and come straight to Edmonton and the hovel in which they sheltered. Louis had been commanding and integral to his first couple of hours of vampirical life, taking care of everything that he needed. At first John had wondered, why Canada? Why this city? Perhaps convenience, ease of travel and accommodations. Louis was established here, at least to a certain extent, that much had been apparent from the beginning. Yet soon the more surprising answer had become clear.

Louis was highly intelligent and had dealt with the forceful whims of the blond monster for centuries. This decision had been calculated and executed with the intent to avoid Lestat. Apparently, Lestat hated Canada. Felt it was too sparsely populated and too boring for his liking. As ridiculous as the reasoning had seemed at first John came to understand that there was very good logic behind it. Edmonton was unlike any other city he had been to. It was a sprawling metropolis, boasting a fair population just above one million, taking up five times the space any other place would. The streets here were wide and generous, the houses large, the sky line not particularly crowded. It was a beautiful place, so open and free of the usual clamor and clutter of an older city.

Even as they drew closer to the popular university area, with its tinker shops, eclectic fashion boutiques, bars, pubs, and coffee shops, they were not crowded. This was also a reason why Louis had brought him here. As people drew in around them, out for the early March evening, there was still only a fourth of the number as there would have been back home in London. He felt the thirst within him, but feeding had dulled its pull on his thoughts, and he felt quite at ease with Louis at his side as they made their way to the Starbucks on the corner—their usual haunt.

Inside was warmer, yet their hardened skin did not register it in the same way. Even with the heavy jacket that he wore it was mostly just for show and not function. Edmonton’s bitter cold did not effect their kind.

They went to the front and ordered two teas from the tiny girl behind the counter. Heavy dark rimmed Raybans could not hide the whites of her eyes, as she eyed the two hotties before her. Her cheeks grew pinker as she plugged the order into the automated register and took payment, all the while her mind screaming loudly how gorgeous they both were. John was beginning to grow accustomed to this reaction, the desire that mortals felt within their presence, but he still couldn’t help the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, as he thanked the girl for her service and her chestnut eyes sparkled radiantly back.

They took their usual seat in the corner by the window. John was saddened that he could no longer partake of the tea he had so enjoyed all his life, but still brought the cup to lips regardless, allowing the aroma of the fragrant leaves—so much more intense than ever before—to please him. Louis did the same, pretending to drink without ever partaking, enjoying the comfort of having the warm mug in his hand. They would sit there together, sometimes for hours, watching, waiting, practicing, planning.

John was feeling confident amongst the other coffee addicts in their presence. Things seemed easier tonight and it was extremely pleasing. Louis had promised they would return to London once everything was in order.

In all honesty, John had not thought of London much in the last several weeks. He had avoided thinking about the consulting detective. Now and then the man had passed through his mind but the vampire had dismissed him quickly. He knew that he should not blame Sherlock for what had happened, even though his resentment drew such conclusions often. The detective in the end had not drawn Lestat to him, had never sought him out, but simply had become a pawn in a supernatural game that he had no hope of controlling. In any case, there was no changing what had happened. There was no sense therefore in hating the other because of it and, in truth, John was beginning to wonder what had become of his friend.

“You’re worried.” Louis spoke. It was not a question, even though he wished a response much the same. Those emerald orbs eyed him from over top of the steaming mug.

“I’m thinking.” John replied with ease, giving a shrug of his shoulders.

His eyes left the others face, drifting down to his own cup that he twitched from side to side with his fingers. He had been thinking more and more lately, trying to understand what would become of him after he returned to London, after Louis left him. It was not as though things could ever return to normal. Not even close. He would have to make a new normal. It would have to be different. It could not be this and could never be what it had ever been before.

His initial thoughts of returning to London had been a blend of eagerness, anger and fear. The life he had lost was still there waiting for him to step back into it, to deal with all that had happened. Mary was gone, really gone, murdered, and not by the creatures that had taken center stage in the drama that unfolded. Her killer was dead but he felt that he owed it to her to find out who had ordered her execution, to give her some sort of justice. It was just as much for her as it was for him.

He also knew he would need to deal with Sherlock, eventually. Thoughts of the consulting detective left him feeling full of turmoil, the scale tipping heavily towards the negative end of the spectrum. He had almost killed the man the night he had been turned into this new creature. The blood lust had consumed John, transforming him into a savage beast with no mind beyond its insatiable desire to feed. In his darkest days after the change, he had sobbed for all three of them. Mary, Sherlock, and himself. It was only after much convincing that Louis had persuaded him to believe that the man still lived. But, in what form? Neither knew and so they had left it at that.

Sherlock Holmes was his best chance to find out what had truly happened to Mary, to investigate what she had been involved in prior to their life together. If the man was still mortal, Louis’ tutelage would serve John well in tempering his thirst and if his once lover had been turned into what he now was…well…if Sherlock hadn’t gone mad he would be practically unstoppable.

There was a sinking in his gut, as he paused on the thought of the self-proclaimed ‘high-functioning sociopath’ spiraling into madness after the transformation. John had been prone to fits of hysterical laughter in those first nights, having great difficulty with rationalizing and accepting his new fate. The doctor in him vehemently refused to agree with the possibility of his own existence and means by which to continue living.

Louis foot gently nudged his and the soft whisper of his voice filled John’s mind, ‘John, you mustn’t stare so.’

John blinked the world back into focus. There was a table just off to the side of where two women sat and his keen hearing heard one whispering saucily to her girlfriend, “I swear. He could be one of those living statues. Street robot, but... ‘hot’. Look? Total—statue.”

There was a soft yet devious snicker from the petite girl across from the other. Pushing brightly colored glasses up on the bridge of her nose, she gave a dismissive wave of a hand in the direction of the two immortals. "Quit staring, ya’ weirdo.” She chastised her pal.

“Hey, did you hear what’s been going on in London?" Soft curls in shades of chestnut and rich purple-burgundy bounced, with the excitement of this query.

John felt the attention shift away from himself and he swallowed, remembering to breath as he relaxed in his chair. The girls’ conversation continued and the new vampire could not help but continue to listen, as John’s interest was piqued at the mention of home.

"London, Ontario? Or—London, London?" the other girl, asked mockingly for clarification.

The woman who had spotted him staring off was in her early thirties and quite pretty. John watched them askance. Her lips were stained a deep pink and a glittering flowered clip pulled a couple of curls back to hang in a soft drape across the side of her manicured brow. He zoned in on just this one, plucking from her mind that the girl who sat opposite her was a relative. He didn’t have to read her to know that they were also best mates.

The slender girl was a few years her junior and unlike her bright frames, the others were black and elegant, as was the brown woolen-hat she wore. It was tipped perfectly to highlight the soft angles in her face, as she laughed and eyed her friend wickedly, waiting expectantly for her girlfriend to answer.

“Oh , you mean that the world’s hottest detective is missing?" The younger girl finally blurted out, her voice hitched with an exuberance that she tried, too late, to subdue.

John choked a little and couldn’t help but glance at the two of them, as did a couple of others who were within earshot. The younger girl flustered, tossing her head to obscure her face behind the shocks of sharply styled taupe and orchid dyed hair. She brushed her bangs from behind the pink glasses and ruffled slivers of white free that had been hidden in the multi-toned dye-job. Wrinkling up a button nose she licked at her glossy full lips then bit unconsciously to the empty lower lip piercing that was no longer there.

It was endearingly adorable, John caught himself thinking, only to realize he was picking up some of her companion’s thoughts and feelings as he studied the duo with his immortal gifts.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! You’re right! You knew exactly who I was talking about—I love that about you!" Her friend squealed, causing a few others to glance up and draw attention away from the other girl. The rounder faced girl was definitely the more animated and dramatic of the two. John focused instead on his tea cup, as his eyes met Louis’ and the two continued to listen with interest.

"They just up and disappeared, like, a couple of weeks ago." Her face had become deathly serious and earnest, her tone dropping low.

The other scoffed, "Wasn't Sherlock missing for like the past two years? He's always going missing."

"Dude, c'mon, we were literally just talking about this yesterday." There was playful exasperation in the tone.

"I literally hate the way you use literally improperly." Came an equally exasperated reply.

"Shut your pretty mouth! No, no, he had to do that because that crazy British super-villain bad- guy master-mind had made up all that bull-puckey about him being the one who was creating all the crimes only so he could look awesome solving them. I mean, he did look awesome solving them regardless, but soooo messed up.” The older girl sounded genuinely flabbergasted.

There was a brief pause before her friend went on, humming her acknowledgement. “Oh that's right, I remember you mentioning something about that. So—now he's missing again?”

“Totally up and vanished. John and his lady-friend too.”

The statement startled John. How did these girls even know about him and Mary? The thought was interrupted as the other replied with confusion.

“ Wait...” the word was drawn out, “I thought they were together. The doctor had a woman on the side?” John felt his eyebrows rise in disbelief and Louis’ stern stare reminded him not to get worked up. There was no gain from losing his temper and revealing himself to the two gossiping women.

“It doesn't matter now, does it?” The other snipped with disappointment in her tone before she sighed deeply. “She was just a cover. You know, them being famous and all.”

“So—Sherlock was back from the dead for how long? A couple months? And now he's gone again? So is the good doctor and the doctors cover-up girl-friend? Tumblr must be having a hay-day with that.”

A sinister cackle bubbled up out of the older girl. “You bet.”

“What about the blog? How do you know about all this anyway?” There was an incredulous air in the questions.

“I read the papers.” The remark was snooty and admonishing. “Also, John hasn't posted anything since Sherlock died—er, hold on, I have an idea.” There was the slap of the woman’s hands on the table, as John heard her friend gasp a little and steady the rattling cups. “Let's. Go. To. London!”

“What the fudge-sundea? Like right now? Just fly to London?” Despite how unbelievable her words sounded, John could pick up the air of wistful longing that underlined the way she said ‘London’.

“Yeah! I will be Sherlock and you can be John. Mrs. Hudson won't even know the difference.” Louis was rolling his eyes and smiling broadly behind a discreet hand, as John drew in long deep breath.

The other girl was scoffing and the vampire could hear her fussing with stacking empty cups. “So, I'm just supposed to leave my husband and kids and move with you...to Baker Street?”

The older girl let out a soft groan. “Sounds romantic doesn't it. I mean well we are obviously going to have to have sex changes and not be related anymore, but I totally have it all planned out. Here, let me illustrate on this napkin.”

John felt his blood-pressure rising a little as he sunk in his chair a little more. Louis fractured emerald eyes gleaming with mirth, as he watched the two girls who were easily in his line of sight. There was the rustling of bags and then some more snickering in the search for a pen, as the two women acted like a couple of grade school kids.

“This oughtta’ be good...” the older vampire could not help himself. He glanced back at the fledgling, who returned the comment with a glowering glare. ‘A good time for you to flex some of your mental capabilities, John. Let’s see if you can read it from her mind.’

‘Not sure that I care to. Thanks.’ Came the quip reply from the other vampire.

There was a long pause that was filled with the quiet chatter of others in the coffee shop. Louis’ smile was beginning to annoy John and the other vampire was more than aware of it. With a languid stretch, he reached his arms above his head and mimicked a yawn. The human movement was so—human—that John had to remind himself it was fake. Louis was good. John only hoped to have gained even a fraction of this vampire’s ability to blend into the world they could never truly be a part of again.

There was a sudden guffaw of laughter out of the two girls that caused a few irritated and startled eyebrows to raise around them. Then the obvious ping of a text message, as the laughter and snickering was cut short.

The older girl huffed suddenly, “Ah, shit,” and began to pout.

“What?” Her cohort sounded only mildly concerned.

“Ah, nothing bad. I apparently double booked. Again. I gotta’ go. Sorry.” John heard the chairs being scraped across the floor as the two packed up their belongings and began to make an exit from the coffee shop. “I totally need a clone.”

“It’s okay. I was supposed to be home twenty minutes ago.” Came the unapologetic snicker from the other.

The two girls left giggling and bundled in winter coats, mittens, and hoods. They headed out into the cold evening air and huge white plumes trailed after them as they laughed. The vampire watched as the girls hugged and parted ways. When he turned back, Louis was watching him very curiously.

"Well, you’re more popular than you thought." The velvet voice remarked, as he rose from the chair and slipped into his jacket.

John huffed, still unsettled by the girls’ conversation. How was it that people who lived millions of miles away knew so much about his life, about his disappearance, and that of Sherlock’s? They didn’t know Mary was dead, but their inferences into his relationship with her was disturbing enough. Worse than all of it though, was that these women had somehow known that he and Sherlock had been lovers. He couldn’t even pinpoint exactly why it was so irritating. It just was. Incredibly grating. Perhaps it was more that the girls had implied that Mary was just a cover story to hide the relationship between he and Sherlock—that seemed to somehow imply on a deeper level that he hadn’t loved Mary.

"John, you’re off somewhere again and it is obvious that you are not pleased. Shall we depart?" Louis did up the buttons on his heavy wool coat and slipped the doe-skin gloves over his pale fingers before he opened a hand in gesture for the other man to lead the way.

John waited a long moment to consider before he answered, "You know, I'm not quite ready to go yet. I think I'll stay a while and see you back at the house."

Louis nodded accommodatingly, pulling the ridiculous yellow and orange toque out of his pocket and over his ears. "See you in a while." Was all he said before he left the small café and joined the few folks who bustled down the sidewalk. Louis vanished seamlessly into the cold night.

The young vampire pulled out his smart phone and began scrolling the internet for news related to himself and Sherlock. He needed to know where these two girls had gotten their information and he needed to know what else had been discovered, if anything, about the circumstances of their disappearance. Even if the truth was out there, it would never be published as legitimate news. So, he turned to a trick that Sherlock had taught him long ago—check the papers no one ever believed. John spent the rest of the evening in the café searching any information he could find on himself, Mary, and Sherlock. It was not until the shop closed that returned to his temporary home.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

Lestat did not return that evening and eventually the detective gave in to sleep.  Marisa left shortly after the tea and did not return.  He assumed that she was with her puffins.  As far as he could tell she was as much an enigma as her employer was.  It seemed that the two may possibly have known each other prior to this arrangement or else she was indifferent to his human plight.  She seemed most insouciant to his being there all together.

It was also plain that she had been prepared to deal with him.  She was evasive and handled his temperament with ease.  He had been wrung for answers more so than he had reciprocated the action.  He was not used to being on the losing end of a questioning.  He was at a loss altogether though. 

The withdrawal had left him shaking, itching, fidgeting, and hindered his ability to focus.  He was also having trouble keeping his emotions in check.  He was irritable and quarrelsome, brought on by worry, a creeping consuming anxiety, and also his ever insatiable curiosity.  He could recall very little about the end of the incident in the penthouse suite ninety-some floors above the London skyline, yet he could clearly recall that Lestat had been defeated, in more ways than one. 

The creature had seemed hauntingly familiar and yet increasingly alien to the detective.  Still, whatever it was, it had laid its claim over him.  The detective was not sure what that meant.  He was familiar with the human sense of claim and possession of another person, a slave, but this he felt was something far more. 

Sherlock had never been one to readily believe anything that was not tangible.  This included religion, mythology, superstition, magic, and many other ridiculous human created fantasies.  He had not believed in the supernatural, in vampires and the like.  Lestat had proven him wrong.  Perhaps this creature was…something other.  If it was than it was not out of the realm of possibility for his claim on Sherlock to be that beyond his physical being.  Perhaps his soul?  Still, he did not easily allow this thought to linger as plausible.  It all seemed so improbable.

At any rate what he gathered from what he could remember of the brief meeting was that this creature was powerful, more so than the vampire, and that meant that he would need to discover exactly what it was the thing wanted of him.  No fight was ever solely for the sake of the physical combat.  There was always an ulterior motive.  What would a supernaturally gifted being want with a mere mortal?  And why had Lestat left him behind?  Where was he and what was the errand that had drawn the vampire away?

The detectives sleep was fitful, wrought with the feverish sweats and nausea of the withdrawal.  He had vomited at some point and finally he had slept what he felt must have been soundly for a few hours when he awoke the next day, late in the morning.  Despite everything he did feel better.  He was almost through the worst of it.  He was drenched in a slick sweat, his hair was a tangled mess that clung to his wet neck and forehead, and his muscles still ached.  Yet the goose bumps were gone, as were the chills and the nausea.  When he sat up in the bed he soon realized that Marisa had been tending to him.

The vomit had been cleaned away and on the night stand by the bed there was a fresh towel and a fresh pitcher of water in the basin.  The door to the bedroom was closed and slowly he crawled from the bed.  He was still naked, had been wrapped in the plaid blanket like a cocoon, and when he stood up the detective took the time to stretch out his tired cramped muscles.  Then he poured a little of the cold water into the basin and cupping his hands splashed a some on his face.  If felt incredible.  Wetting the cloth, he swiped the grime from his face and neck, working over his entire body to rid himself of the sticky sweat.  By the end he was chilled by the cool air in the room and the cold water but his skin was pink from scrubbing and he smelled slightly better.  Lastly, he bent over the basin and poured the remaining water over his head, working it through his tangled mop, massaging his temples and his scalp, before toweling off. 

When he was finished his body ached much less and he felt his head was clearer.  He left the bedding where it was, it needed a good cleaning.  He found the clothes that he had discarded by the door neatly folded on the chair and he dressed quickly, looking out the windows as he did to see if he could glimpse his young keeper.  He had socks, pants, and trousers, but his shirt was absent.  When he left the bedroom he found his coat hanging by the front door and slipped into it.  It was warm and familiar, but smelled like the sea instead of the London smog. 

Outside the croft the sun was high and beaming, rare for this time of year.  The wind was fierce on the unprotected isle, whipping with the ferocity of a clawed beast as he walked up towards the lighthouse.  The outside of it was dingy and worn, a testament to the hard life here on the rocky isle.  The tower seemed to stand in defiance, straight and tall against the wind and the sea spray, high on the point for all to see.  He walked all around the building and, not finding his redheaded keeper, he began to walk the perimeter of the tiny island.  It took a good couple of hours to come back around to the croft and the light house and by then his nose was running and his fingers were frozen, despite his leather gloves.  The only remarkable discovery he had made in that time was a set of cement steps that led down to a rocky outcropping that was utilized as a fairly functional boat mooring.  There had predictably been no boat. 

Upon his return to the croft he noticed the smoke was coming from the chimney and there was bedding hung out on the wash lines.  He wondered how the woman had evaded him on the barren expanse of the heath covered isle.  When he came through the front door he found the redhead at the hearth, stoking a fire and warming yesterdays meal in the big pot.  She gave him a nod in greeting and nothing more, not even a glance.  He came inside, exhausted from his exertions and glad for the ready heat of the fire.  He pulled up a chair beside it, hiding his red nose in the folds of his scarf. 

The heat of the fire was welcoming, thawing him little by little, as Marisa dished him out a bowl of the same puffin soup.  They ate in silence by the fire.  He knew that she had been with her puffins all day.  Her fingers were dirty and ink stained, despite being pink from washing, and clinging to her jeans was still a feather or two as well as bits of heath.  The ringed notebook on the table was wet from being outside, worn, and well loved.  The ornithologist was dedicated, to say the least.

The detective had deduced her correctly.  She was attractive, slender and pretty, not well endowed but amply enough, and that shocking dark crimson hair in contrast to her brilliant pale green eyes was hard not to notice, no matter your sex or persuasion.  She never found men.  Men found her.  Sometimes she went along for the ride.  The last one had lasted the longest—he averaged somewhere between eight to ten months at best—but had given out due to the same old reason.  The redhead hated the tedious nature of today’s conversation just about as much as he did—plus her priorities would always remain first and foremost for her work.  Sherlock could respect that much.

They had tea shortly after and then she left the croft, quickly returning with the bedding.  She went into the one bedroom and went about the more domestic part of her chores in caring for her guest.  He watched her, more to study her and perhaps get a reaction out of her than anything else.  She ignored him, begrudgingly, glaring at him askance now and then.

Two more days passed like this and they never spoke to one another.  Not really.  There was the odd nonverbal nod or wave.  Nothing else was needed.  She did her duty.  Fed him, cleaned up after him, and the like, and spent the rest of her time away.  The detective slept more than was his habit, finding himself winded and exhausted with little exertion, but each day he grew stronger and slowly his energy reserves were returning to a moderately tolerable level.  Before they both knew it, a week had past, and still the vampire did not return. 

By this time Sherlock had gone thoroughly mad.  Marisa was growing increasingly short with him.  She spent more and more time away and the detective spent more and more time looking for her.  For how small the island was it was amazing how elusive the small ornithologist could be.  It was childish, like a game of hide and seek, but it gave the man something to do, something to occupy his mind.  She would rise before dawn, slipping out in the darkness, and even when he woke to watch her path through the window, she seemed to lose him. 

The puffins had many colonies along the high cliffs of the isles sharp rigid shoreline and Marisa would frequent each daily.  She was not just silent and stealthy, she was lithe, incredibly graceful, and surefooted.  She could clamber down natural holds in the wet cliff face to a free space where she could rest, watch, and record.  When Sherlock found her, he would watch and study her in the same way that she watched her puffins.  That was until she spotted him.  Then she would get mad and crawl back up to give him a tongue-lashing that was as incredible and it was succinct.  He did not believe these little outbursts could count as conversation.

Finally, one evening as they sat quietly alongside the hearth, sharing a pot of tea, she asked him, “Who’s John?”

The detective had not been surprised that she had spoke, he could tell for the last thirty minutes that she had wanted to.  The question however was most intriguing.  Sherlock was not sure he knew the answer.  Who was John Watson now?

When he did not respond the girl amended her words and rephrased, “I mean, I know that he must be important to you.  I’ve heard you call his name when you were working off the morphine and Lestat mentioned him…a little.” She paused and he seen her teeth dig into her bottom lip before she finished, “Was he your…lover?”

Sherlock calculated what one would respond to that, given his history with the other man.  John had been many things to the detective.  A flatmate, a friend, and, yes, even a lover.  Riechenbach had changed all of that.  Moriarty’s fall had forced them apart and things had never been the same afterward.  John was to marry, a lovely woman who had fixed what their separation had undone, and even that had changed.  Mary was dead, John was a vampire, and Sherlock was stuck on an isle unable to do anything about it. 

“I’m sorry, that was rude.” She apologized, in the awkward absence of a response. 

Marisa made to leave, flustered by her own inquiry, and he stopped the girl with a sharp, retort, “You’re correct.”  Those green eyes flashed up at him, wide with surprise and that deeper underlying intrigue.  The woman seemed frozen in place and the detective took full advantage of it, adding more properly, “It was not the stupidest deduction you’ve made.”

Her red brows fell at that remark.  “Well, that’s a backhanded compliment if I’ve ever heard one.” She snapped.  Marisa was perturbed but the intrigue was winning out.  Perhaps this was her way of relenting in their speechless challenge.  She took another sip from her mug of tea.  It was painfully obvious that she was thinking.  He could just about hear the thoughts whizzing through her mind.  Lestat had only given her enough information to deal with him and nothing more, which meant he did not trust her with anything more.  Perhaps she did not know what he really was.

“You’re more used to giving them than receiving them.” He finally said, hoping to spur her into more conversation, which could lead to more answers or at the very least a little entertainment.

Her small mouth curled at the corners in a restrained smile she tried to hide behind her raised mug.  Her eyes were cast away.  She was still musing now, comparing his pointed comments to her last failed relationship and the one she was currently contemplating.  Then slowly, she said, “I met John Watson once.  He was a good man.”

“You knew who he was the entire time.” He pointed out her blithe error.

“Yeah, I did.” She retorted, appearing pleased with herself rather than guilty.  “I just wanted to hear you say it.”  


Interesting context, past tense, the detective thought, as he also considered how and when the girl had met the doctor.  After a moment it came to him and delightedly he announced his finding, “The boring teacher.  Oh, she was dreadful.” 

To his surprise the girl gave a light hearted tinkle of laughter, her chartreuse eyes sparkling warmly in the fire light.  “Candace isn’t dreadful.  She’s just…conventional.” Marisa tried to correct, fumbling to politely excuse her friend’s insipidness.  “She really didn’t like you.”

Sherlock scoffed and informed his host, “None of them did.”

“’Them?’” the girl asked, with a skeptically arched brow, as she raised a hand an gestured quotation marks.

The detective shrugged.  “To be fair, there were many that followed him back to the flat.”

“So,” she said, drawing out the vowel sound as she mused.  Then she pointed a finger at him accusingly, “you did purposely aggravate those girls.”

“I simply observe.” He corrected, imperially.

“Yeah, but you would purposely point out the worst of what you observed because you knew the girls would leave.” She added, with a sly smile.  She took a sip of her tea and then continued, “I didn’t believe Candace.  I thought she was being overly dramatic when she accused you of your dastardly boorishness.  Not that I don’t believe you can be an utter prick when you want to be,” she laughed, “but she was insistent that you had designs on the doctor.”

“I did though,” Sherlock said, “you just make the mistake of assuming that it was purely for a romantic purpose.  I am and always have considered myself to be married solely to my work.  John Watson was a very instrumental part of carrying that out and the girls that he brought home interfered with his usefulness.”

“You mean, you didn’t like finding them snogging on the couch.” She quipped, a wicked grin on her mouth. 

“I mean,” he reiterated, through clenched teeth, “that they expected time of him that took away from the work.  It was a bloody nuisance.”

“You were jealous.” She said, in a low tone, drawing out the last two syllables.  “You would rather he was snogging you.”

“A terrible use of the English language that word is.” He condemned in his cool tone, as he sipped from his own tea.  This was not the kind of entertainment he had intended when he had allowed this conversation to start.  Somehow she had a means of turning the tides on him and he would allow it to bowl him over.  That was not like him and when he considered why this might be, he came up empty handed. 

“John was a good man though.” She said, almost mournfully. 

He decided to call her out on it.  “Did Lestat tell you that John Watson is dead?” it was said in an accusing tone, more of a statement than a question.

“Something like that.” She replied, in a quiet distant tone, her eyes cast down to the fire in the hearth at their side. 

Sherlock found that he really was having a hard time reading her, deducing her.  It was aggravating and irksome, so he reverted to direct questioning.  “What exactly did he tell you?”  It was said in a darker tone than he had intended and her eyes snapped up to meet with his, immediately suspicious. 

Marisa squared her shoulders and straightened her back, assuming a posture of challenge, before she explained in her tiresomely elusive way, “What I needed to know.”

He made a flippant gesture in her direction, “Yes, that much was obvious.  Do you know that Lestat is a vampire or not?”

She made a disregarding sound and rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair.  “You honestly expect me to answer that?”

Growing more impatient he finally just spat at the small woman, as he rose to tower over her, “John Watson is not dead and you keeping me here is hindering me from finding him, from helping him!  If you feel so strongly that he was a good man, then help me get off this island.”

Marisa was not intimidated by him.  Her eyes were narrowed in fury and her mouth was set in a rigid thin line, as she glared up at him.  “You’re not ready and you fucking know it.” She spat back standing up from her own chair.  She pounded a finger into his chest, as she argued at him in a hiss, “If I let you go now, you wouldn’t make it.  You have no idea how dangerous this thing is that you are playing with.”  She stepped away, brusquely jarring him with her shoulder as she went.  The slight was more powerful than he had anticipated of such a petite figure and he stumbled back as she walked past him.  “A few more days, then you will have recovered enough of your blood, your strength, and then you may go.”

The detective grabbed her arm roughly, holding her back from the door.  “I will leave now!”

The small woman ripped her arm free as though his grip were nothing.  “You don’t get to give me orders.” She whispered menacingly, before she spun and stormed from the croft.  He made to catch her but when he got to the doorway, she was gone, as mysteriously as ever.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

John woke with a sharp cry of panic, bolting upright in the pitch black room. His pulse was racing, he could feel sweat on his brow.  It dripped into his eyes.  It stung, so he wiped at his face with the back of his hand. Blinking rapidly he tried to find focus or light in the room, neither of which came as he took a deep breath and deliberately exhaled in a slow hissing fashion.  The dream was still hot and fresh in his mind as he closed his eyes and pulled his knees to his chest, the bed beneath him creaking with his movements.

It had been the penthouse all over again, his prison and morgue. The last place he had drawn breath as a mortal man. He had stood over the pale and trembling body of Sherlock, the clammy white flesh was stark in comparison to the dark crimson that pooled beneath the man, too large for the man to still be living if it had all been his. Blood tears ran down from the glassy eyes, shifting in tone from green to blue to gold and grays. His lips were stained with the same scarlet, his hair matted with it, the black long-coat was heavy and saturated and the man himself was clawing towards John along the floor. The mouth was open, gulping at him, as blood poured out with each parting of his lips. Slender boney fingers reaching for him and John was backing away—but not in horror. Instead there was an intense feeling of dominance that rolled through him. Of a sinister and painfully heart wrenching disgust at the other who was so desperately trying to reach him, to communicate through the regurgitation of bodily fluid.

John could hear himself chuckling darkly in the dream.  Snide and aloof he knocked the outstretched hand down to the floor and stepped on it, hearing the detective cry out.

“You are responsible for all of this, Sherlock.” His voice was not his own, it was someone else inside of him saying these things. He couldn’t explain it. He simply couldn’t accept this was him and so it was the only explanation left.

“Foolish fragile little thing that you are now. You should have taken the gift when you had the chance, maybe I’d still be alive then, hm?” He knelt and violently yanked the man’s face up to look at him, hearing hair tearing from the scalp as he looked into the red-rimmed eyes that were wide with panic. “Now, Sherlock, he’s going to get us both and it’s all your fault.”

His fingers tightened in the black curls and with a savage reef he tore the mans head clean from the body. That had been the last violent moment before he had startled himself awake in the blackened room.

The hatred he had felt was raging inside him still, transformed and retargeted from the dream representation of his friend and once lover, back unto himself. He directed toward the thing he had become because never before, even in his darkest days in active service had he ever dreamt of himself being the monster he had just seen. Dreams didn’t make reality but they could often be hints at things hidden to ourselves in the unconscious mind. This demon he had been in the dream was what he feared. Cold, consumed with hatred, bitter and malicious, willing to blame Sherlock for everything that had happened and mudering him for it.

John rubbed at his arms, the dream left him feeling as if his whole body was covered in a black sludge that he was now desperate to wipe off. He had rocked himself on the bed while recounting the vision that had assaulted his mind a second time, replaying it despite the churning in his gut. Dreams of the night he had been changed had been coming more often over the last week. Sometimes he remembered nothing more than knowing it was one of the many random dreamscapes that had tumbled through his mind in the course of his death-like slumber. Other times it was as if he had just been on white marble and in the time it took to blink he was transported to the darkened room that he had come to know thousands of miles from his London.

His initial thoughts of returning to London had been a blend of yearning for home and normality, anger, and anxiety. The life he had lost was still there waiting for him to step back into—even though he had so irrevocably changed—he still had to deal with what he had left behind. Mary was gone, really gone, murdered and not by the creatures that had taken center stage in the drama that unfolded afterward. Her killer was dead but he owed it to her to find out who had ordered her execution, to give her some sort of justice. It was just as much for her as it was for him.  For this he knew he would need Sherlock.

Thoughts of the man had brought about all of those emotions in him that he had bundled away while he had been in Canada.  One of these was more prevalent than the rest; fear. He had almost killed the detective that night he had been turned into this new creature.  The blood lust had consumed him and made him a savage beast that had no mind beyond its own insatiable desire to feed.

In his darkest days after the change he had sobbed for all three of them. Mary, Sherlock, and himself. It was only after much convincing that Louis had assured him that the man still lived but in what way, neither knew and so he had left it at that.  

Sherlock was his best chance to find out what had truly happened to Mary, what she had been involved in prior to their life together. If the man was still mortal, Louis’ tutelage would serve John well in tempering his thirst and if his once lover had been turned into what he was now…well…if Sherlock hadn’t gone mad he would be practically unstoppable. There was a sinking in his stomach as he caught on the thought of the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath spiraling into madness after the transformation. He himself had great difficulty with it, the doctor in him vehemently refused to agree in the possibility of his own existence and means by which to he was now forced to use in order to continue living.  He worried Sherlock would find the rationalization even harder.

***

The detective liked the silence that his keeper seemed intent on keeping.  It meant that he did not have to endure idle conversation and much of his time throughout the next four days that passed was spent in his mind palace, mulling over the recent events that had so irreversibly changed their lives.  Sherlock thought about the reality of immortality and of the vampirical state of being, he rationalized the need for his time on the island as a health necessity so he did not lose himself to the madness of boredom, and he even thought of his brother.  

It was obvious that Mycroft, the tit, had known all along that vampires were real and had also become privy to the fact that Lestat had an interest in him.  Yet running away could not possibly have been the best means of dealing with either.  The thought crossed his mind as to weather or not his elder sibling was looking for him—of course he would be, he always was—and if he could not be found would their parents would be informed?  The thought was just as quickly dismissed, as he envisioned teary eyed wailing from his mother and the saddened lost mask his father would assume to help her through the ordeal.  It was a wasted thought.  Mycroft wouldn’t dare.

Sherlock also tried very, very, hard not to think about John.  It had felt like an easy undertaking when he had decided he would ban the man from his mind palace and yet it had proven to be the most impossible of decrees to uphold.  The man pervaded many of the room of the palace where he stored all of his data, his memories, and his experiences.  He would be sitting down to go through a filing cabinet, to sort and to organize what he had laid out to cover, and John would be there in his red chair, ankles crossed casually, tea cup in hand, asking what he was doing.  It seemed that it did not matter where he went, the doctor could find him.  It was destressing, frustrating, and even maddening.  Mycroft had always reminded him that feelings were not an advantage and Sherlock felt the disadvantage of them now more than he ever had before.  Many times he had woke from his meditations, shamed by wet cheeks and the fact that he had very little else accomplished.  

Marisa had not said anything about the sessions.  He could tell that she was both relieved and worried about the fact that their little game of hide and seek had ended.  She would check in on him now more often, leaving a cup of tea on the nightstand by the bed.  Thankfully she never attempted to rouse him.  He would get nothing accomplished if she had.  The woman just went about her daily routine and her care for him in silence.   She did not ask about the doctor again until that evening.  

"I hate apologizing just about as much you do," she started, talking to him as she washed dishes in a large steel basin near the side board, as he sat at the table enjoying a late nightcap, "but I shouldn't have asked."

Sherlock groaned in protest.  How very dull he felt the woman was being!  Days of blessed silence only to have it broken for such mediocrity.  "He is not dead, Marisa, stop beating yourself with your own imaginary guilt, it’s so pedestrian." he snapped.

The woman froze for a second in her work, a plate half way out of the hot soapy water, and then she dropped it back in and turned round just enough to face him at the table behind her.  She looked utterly flabbergasted, edged with a deep sense of anger and deceit, and those wide eyes narrowed on him.  She looked quite beautiful then and he wondered if her ex had thought so when he had provoked such a look out of her.  It was obvious that most people would find any such expression similar to this to be somewhat threatening but the detective always enjoyed a good challenge.  

"How do you know that?" she said, her voice icy with skepticism.  Her glare was just as frigid.

"The history on your laptop says that you've been exceptionally interested in the good doctor lately." he answered her, in a condescending tone of high authority.  He gave her a wide zealous closed lipped grin, which lasted only a moment, before he cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, patronizingly questioning, "I'm pretty sure that the university is not funding your research with satellite internet so you can look up missing army doctor bloggers."

"You've been...?" she never finished the half-muttered sentence.  She spun back around and furiously continued her task, scrubbing the dishes harder, as she complained, "Of course you've been using my laptop.  I must have been an idiot to consider that you would have had enough respect for privacy to leave my things alone."  She gave him a cheeky glance askance, as she sweetly inquired, “Have you been sniffing my panties as well?”

"Not really my kind of challenge and I do believe that you wear thongs, not panties.  The password on your laptop, however, was much more tempting, even if it was dreadfully easy to crack." He goaded her, loving that she self-consciously turned red before returning to her fuming.  Getting reactions out of normal people was awfully entertaining, even more so when the target tried to hide it.  "Only took three tries in fact.  Fairly unoriginal in the end. I had been expecting something more, given your mild intelligence.  You did finish at the top of your class after all."

“You really are an ass-hat.” She said.  The sound of her voice was low and rather surprisingly bored.  She had bottled the rage that she had been exhibiting moments before and in doing so had taken all the fun out of annoying her.  Her use of language really was deplorable.  She was highly intelligent and still chose not to use it when criticizing him.  “You know, you make it really hard for anyone to have sympathy for you.”

Now the detective was offended.  “I don’t need your sympathy.” He tried to simply scoff.  It had come out more of a snarl—his game was off, given the recent morphine relapse—and he straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and raised his chin before replying more coolly, “What an utterly useless gesture.  Your sympathy would benefit me in absolutely no single way.”

She did an about-face then, grabbing a towel and wiping the bubbles from her pink fingers.  “Screw this back and forth bullshit!” she quipped, practically snapping her teeth at him.  She threw the towel aside and folded her arms over her chest, the rough woolen jumper bunching against the heavy canvas bib of her overalls, as she pinned him with one of her most intense looks—this too had become a game, who could skewer the other with the most piercing glare.  He enjoyed it and he had to bite his inside of his cheeks to keep from smiling, even a little bit. 

“You have avoided my question altogether, and I really could care less how you feel about anything I do, because it’s pretty damn obvious that you don’t feel anything.”  She paused, gesturing wildly with her hands, slamming one down against the palm of the other like judge’s gavel, as she demanded, “Just answer the fucking question: How do you know John Watson is not dead?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair.  She had found him a shirt a couple of days ago that somewhat fit.  She had nothing on the island but what she had packed for the expedition and so she had loaned him her largest sweater, which still stretched across his shoulders and failed to reach his belt—at least it was dark grey and not florescent pink.  He tried to mimic her stance in the chair but the sweater pulled uncomfortably at his shoulders when he drew his arms together, so instead he placed his hands around the cup before him, and quipped back at her, “Well, first off, I would find it hardly a credible claim, it having come from Lestat.  The creature is an compulsive liar and is incredibly adept at manipulation.  What you really need to know is why he would want you to believe that John is dead?”

Her mouth moved from its thin line with a quick rake of her top teeth, before they pursed.  She was smart enough to figure this out.  Finally, after only a moment of deliberation, she answered, “He didn’t tell me that he was dead.”

“I didn’t tell her anything.” Purred a dark voice from the door way. 

Her eyes glanced up just as Sherlock turned to find the blond and before either of them could complete the movement the vampire was behind the detective.  His icy hands were on his shoulders and when Sherlock tried to break the hold, he failed, he was unable to even budge the statue-esque figure behind him.  Lestat gave a deep hearty chuckle, as the detective glanced askance at his keeper.  Marisa’s figure had straightened pertly, arms still folded but knuckles white with tension.  She was made uneasy by the vampire, so he had been correct in deducing that she knew very little about him. 

Those powerful fingers lifted from one shoulder and Sherlock found his head at the mercy of their pull, when his chin was captured and lifted.  He had no choice but to allow the movement and his head was tipped back until their eyes met. 

“Did you miss me?” the vampire asked, with a smirk.  Sherlock refrained from responding and the vampire just continued on, “I see my little scullery maid here has been feeding you well.  Your color has returned and you look like you may have actually gained a pound or two.  Well, done Marisa.”

The woman did not respond to the vampire either.  She watched him with a wary gaze that was both challenging and fearful.  She had right to be.  The creature let him go and took a seat in the only other chair at the tiny wooden table, with a heavy sigh.  “You two must have gotten along beautifully.  I can’t imagine two people who care to talk less than the two of you.” It was said for the sake of speaking, for filling the silence left in his wake. 

The vampire reached out a hand and gently took the girls wrist.  She did not resist, allowing him to gently pull her towards him until she was sat in his lap like a child and he wrapped his arms about her warmly.  Marisa did not seem to warm to his touch in the least. She was rigid with mistrust.  “How are your filthy puffins?” he asked her.

Marisa’s eyes narrowed further, so they were but mere slits with a hint of iris behind the dark auburn lashes.  “They are twitter-pated and mating.  I’ve had good weather too for my record keeping.  Not too many days sitting out in the rain, soaked, trying to write on wet paper.” She answered, with a fair amount of casualness. 

Lestat smiled and looked across at the detective.  He wrinkled his nose and looked back up at her, commenting, “Certainly not my idea of a good time, but I suppose to each their own.  I commend your perseverance, my sweet—I mean, for dealing with the detective now…not your birds.” 

That made her smile and Sherlock detested how satisfied the vampire appeared to have roused it from her.  “He was no trouble.” She replied, easily.  Then she amended quickly, with a shrug, “Well, not much trouble.”

The vampire reached up and tapped the end of her turned up nose with his finger.  “He is yours no longer.” He said, “He seems well enough to travel again and we have business back in London.”

Marisa turned her head and gave the detective an assessing look.  “He does seem to be regaining his strength.  The transfusion helped a great deal but it will take months for his iron levels to return to normal.” She turned back to the vampire and continued, “Make sure he takes supplements.”

“Ugh, seriously?” Lestat grated.

“Seriously." She replied, in lowered tone.  Then she quickly added, “And don’t give him any blood.”

“He’s already agreed to take it.  He wants the dark gift.” Lestat said with a wicked grin, as he eyed Sherlock from over her shoulder.

“Whatever,” she sighed, with a dismissive shake of her head.  She put out her hand to the vampire and changed the subject, “Where’s my fee?”

“In your bank account.”

“What about my _other_ fee?” she asked, commandingly.

Lestat gave a soft chuckle and took out a small glass vile from somewhere on his person, placing it into her small hand.  “As promised.”

Then he let her go and they both rose from the chair.  Marisa turned her back on Sherlock after one final glance.  She never looked back.  Lestat gave the detective orders to gather his few things, that they would indeed head straight back to London immediately, and Sherlock did not hesitate to cooperate.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“I understand, John, there is no need to say anything more.” Louis said, his eyes genuinely pleased, as his arms encircled the smaller man and they shared a strong embrace. 

John felt safe with this other vampire and a part of him dreaded the leaving as much as the other part rejoiced in the prospect of returning to London, to home.  They separated and Louis bent to kiss his mouth in a quick gesture of goodbye.  “Remember, John, that I will always be willing to see you.  You can always call on me if you need to.”

“Thank you,” John said, it was a choked response.  The doctor hated goodbyes.  They were always awkward and this one was especially so.  “I appreciate it…I appreciate everything, Louis.”

Louis’ dark head nodded and he smiled warmly.  “Think nothing of it.  I understand why you wish to seek out this truth about your sweet Mary.  You need closure.  David is a good man and he is willing to aid you in this quest as best he can.  He is awaiting your return.  All you need do is text the number I gave you when you are back in London and he will arrange a time to meet with you.”

“Thank you.” John reached out and captured the other vampire strongly again, clapping him on the back, before pulling away.  “And where is it then…that you shall be off to?”

John observed the older vampire give a short glance askance to the packed messenger that was sitting ready to go by the door to the small rundown house the two of them had shared over the past few weeks. Then those eyes came back and John could see a fondness there as Louis explained, “I am going to meet with Armand on his Night Island.  It is a wondrous place, John, built specifically for our kind.  If you should ever need a reprieve from the mortal world, I would recommend that you seek it out.  You will be welcomed there.” 

“I will keep that in mind.” John said, turning to walk away, when his arm was caught gently.  He turned back to see slightly anxious looking emerald eyes looking down into his own.

“Be mindful, John, if you seek out Sherlock.” He said.  The fond warmth was gone from the tone.  This was said in flat tone with strong under currents of warning and caution.

“I’m not sure yet that I will.” The doctor admitted.  His face made that pinched smile that John hated and couldn’t help.  It always gave the observer the impression that he was holding back or giving half-truths.  Though this he knew was the truth.  He really was not sure that he was ready to handle the detective yet—no matter what capacity he lived in now. 

“Forgive him.” Louis implored.  It came out an earnest whisper, spoken with many years of regret and experience.  This John could feel radiating from the other vampire’s mind and person.

The sentiment so strongly felt only made the doctor harrumph.  He swallowed his own exasperated first response and managed to replace it with a more calculated reply. “I shall consider it.”

They embraced one last time, slightly more rigid than the two that had come before it, and then they parted ways.  Louis leaving for his lover and John leaving for London.  Louis had arranged for a private jet to charter John back to London.  It was his final gift, given on the context, “You’re still too young to be stuffed into a plane with hundreds of mortals for hours on end.”

John was grateful.  When he had contemplated returning home he was not exactly sure how he was going to tackle that hurdle and this gesture was a simple answer.  He arrived back in London just before dawn and there was a car waiting to taxi him to a secure location that Louis had made available for his use.  Baker Street would have to wait. 

This place felt foreign to him, like he was an intruder, even though the code for the door had worked on the first try.  He was also hungry.  The thirst was clawing at his throat and at his mind, more prevalent than in recent days.  He chalked it up to his anxieties.  He was nervous.  Incredibly so!  His nerves were  brought on by the thought of everything that was to come in these next few days. 

John had many things that he had to cover.  Louis had advised him to allow his death to go unsolved.  As of the moment, he and his wife were missing.  The Met was under the impression that it was suspicious but having found no bodies they could not conclude that it was a homicide.  John wished he could bring closure for his friends and his family, yet he had failed to see a means of accomplishing it. 

Louis had cautioned him strongly against seeing anyone from his previous life, explaining that they would not understand all the changes of his physical person and that it would be easier for them to come to the conclusion on their own that he was no longer going to be a part of their lives.  It would be painful, but it was after all more natural.  The doctor had noted with some disdain that Sherlock Holmes had somehow been excluded from this inclusion.  Yet, the detective was now fully aware of the existence of their kind and of John’s transformation.  Yet, despite all that, John was certain now that he was back home that he did not wish to seek the other man out and he had the means now of avoiding the detective, if he so wished.

So, it was that when night had come again, John went out to Baker Street to investigate what had become of the man—so as to better avoid him. 

The vampire fed before arriving, so as not to be pestered by the cloying thirst, and when he made it to 221B he came through the front door silently.  He could hear Mrs. Hudson watching telly, could smell that she was drinking her last cup of tea, and he could tell that she was silently weeping.  A cold grip squeezed at his heart, as her thoughts screamed through his mind.  She mourned the two of them—he noted, with some annoyance, that it was the detective and himself, and not Mary—thinking surely they must both be in dreadful danger if not dead.  It took everything he had to stop himself from flinging open her door and ending her misery with his presence. 

Instead he conceded to leave her a note, to give an explanation of some kind to ease her pain—much against Louis’ advice.  He just couldn’t leave her to suffer this way.  Not when he could possibly explain her pain away with some made up lie.  

When he had finished, he left the note on the small side table in the foyer and turned his attentions to the flat above.  He could tell that the flat was silent.  Sherlock was not there and he was incredibly thankful for it.  He went up and was surprised to find the flat in the state that it was. 

There had been a struggle.  His friend’s bedroom was torn apart.  The bed was unmade and disheveled and there were holes in the drywall, where a body had been slammed.  He wondered what had happened, knowing full well that it had involved the detective and the vampire Lestat.  Had it happened before or after the penthouse?  The smell of blood lingered, even though Mrs. Hudson had tried to clean it all away.  Fear, which he did not wish to acknowledge, was beginning to tingle at the base of his spine and soon he left. 

Whatever and whenever this had happened it didn’t matter now.  It was clear that Sherlock Holmes had been away a while.  With his curiosity piqued, John found himself back at the penthouse in the high-rise where he had been held captive.  He was disturbed to find it was no more.  Upon investigation he realized it had exploded and wondered then if this was the reason why over the last few weeks he had a growing sense that his friend was in trouble. 

John had no way of knowing where Sherlock was or where the vampire Lestat was either, so he resolved to continue with his original intentions and texted David.  The vampire’s response was prompt.  They would met the next evening, at an address in Chelsea, and when John arrived he was surprised at the size of the home. 

It was massive and grandiose, to say the least.  The large double doors were immaculately carved and were surrounded by blue and green stained glass in a beautiful geometric pattern.  He rang the bell and a butler opened the door, inviting him inside without hardly a glance let alone a word.  John said a cheerful hello regardless.  The man continued to ignore him, as stone faced as a British Royal Guard.

John made to remove his shoes and someone called to him from down the hall, “No need, John, come right in.”  A man approached him, tall and broad in the shoulders.  He was ridiculously handsome—as he was finding out many of their kind were—making the smaller simpler man feel slightly self-conscious. 

The doctor ducked his head as the other immortal closed the distance between them in four strides of his long legs.  They shook hands, like business partners might, strong and firm.  Louis had told John very little about the vampire he was to meet, only that he might have a means of aiding the search for Mary’s killer, whomever it had been that had ordered her death.  This vampire appeared very intellectual, in both his speech, which was eloquent and soft, and his manner of dress, his button down lavender shirt accenting his dark golden skin. 

John was invited through the expansive home to a large study boasting a wide wooden desk, crimson curtains, and a large portrait of the queen.  John recognized the painting, the one of her majesty in the golden tulle dress with the wattle blossoms.  It claimed the wall, as large as the reproduction was, especially seeing it was the only adornment to the room, besides the standard bookshelves and chairs that one might expect. 

The new vampire found it hard to look away from the beautiful smile on the Queen’s face.  The shifting shades of pink, brown, blue, and yellow, showed brilliantly in the clarity of the print, his immortal eyes picking up the suggestion of each individual brush stroke.  It was as though every moment he studied her, her majesty in turn scrutinized him.  David broke the spell, offering his guest a seat in on the leather round back club-chairs, as the other leaned back and seated his backside against the top of the desk.  John’s gaze went to the other man’s face, his vampirical eyes not failing to note the details of the weave in the fine fabric of the man’s dress shirt, and the other smiled warmly.

“I’m glad that you have come, John.” The anglo-indian said.  The accent was public school.  His eyes had a strange darkness to the outer ring of the iris, with a warm caramel-colored center punctured by the black pupillary muscle that twitched, as his gaze focused on John’s.

“T-thank you for having me.” The doctor replied, being polite, as he smiled back.

“Louis told me that you are a fledgling of Lestat.” The man started.  It was said simply, like a scientific fact stated, and still John loathed it.  The man reached out a hand again and the new vampire took it, curiously.  “Welcome to the club.”

“You are too?” it came out lamely and John immediately disliked the sound of it.

“In truth, there are a few of us.  All turned for very different reasons, but still we are connected.  Lestat will always be our maker.”  David explained and when it was said and out of the way, he changed the subject tactfully, steering things back to the matter at hand.  “Louis has explained that you are looking for information regarding the passing of your fiancé.”

“Yes,” John said, folding his hands together in his lap to keep them from fidgeting in front of the other immortal.  “She was murdered in our home before…” he had to pause, choking on the phrase, and cleared his throat, continuing simply with a flippant gesture at his new condition, “before everything else happened.  The buggar damn well would have done me in as well, if Louis hadn’t stepped in.”

“Lucky for you then.” The other replied.  He sighed and rubbed a hand over his chin, clucking his tongue against his cheek.  “So, I think the best way to start this off then, is for me to ask you how much you know about Mary Morston’s past.”

This threw the doctor off a bit.  He hated to admit it but he knew very little about the lovely woman’s past, which had been much of her own doing.  That didn’t matter now, she was gone, and he had an eternity to dwell on all the things that he did or did not do before, so he answered the scholarly vampire as honestly as he could.  “She was an orphan…moved around a lot.  She’d only lived in London for a couple of years.”  It was painful to say the things that came to his mind aloud.  There were so few of them.  So finally he raised his hands in his own defense and admitted candidly, “To be honest, I never really pressed.  She always seemed so sad when I asked her.”

The other vampire’s dark head of thick round black waves dipped, tussling the loose curls ever so slightly. John could see every damn hair on the head before him, and he chastised his own inability to keep these damn new heightened senses in check.  The voice from the other was low and gentle, diplomatic, as he answered in return, “So, the truth is, that you know very little.”  The head came back up and the man pulled at the sleeves of his jumper, pushing them up his arms, before he crossed them over his chest, adding frankly, “Keep that in mind…because what I am about to tell you might be almost as hard to swallow as your current predicament.”

John eyed the other, visibly skeptical of that statement.  It was hard to believe that anything could be more unbelievable than what he had been through these past several weeks.  “Oooookay….?” It came out long and understandably cautious.

David sighed, it was a long whooshing sound, that spoke of his desire to find an appropriate place to start.  Was John really that much out of the loop?  He had felt like Louis had tred cautiously around certain subjects and this was now mirrored in the vampire the other had sent him on to.  “Have you ever heard about the _Free Masons_ or the _Watchers_?”

John felt that pinched smile he hated so much cross his face.  It was a reflexive reaction to the question.  Had he actually been sent on to some conspiracy theorist?  He felt suddenly like this must have been all a big joke, a prank at his expense, razzing the newbie.  The smile was his way of swallowing the sudden anger that rose to the surface, the swears that were at the tip of his tongue ready to sting. 

David just continued.  “Perhaps, does the term _Talmasca_ sound familiar to you?” he asked and then their eyes met again.  A hand shot up, flat palmed, and he went on, “No don’t answer.  I can tell by your blank expression that you haven’t.  Just like only weeks ago you discovered that vampires are real, so too exists a menagerie of secret societies that were created to monitor the various types of supernatural beings that exist in this world just below the surface of the mundane reality.” 

John’s smile twitched at the corner in aggravation, as he wondered where Lestat was and if Louis and this bastard had set him up for this humiliation, when David added, in his quiet manner, “Your former fiancé was once a member of the latter group.”

The doctor’s composure broke.  “A secret agent?!” he blustered brusquely, his fingers knit together, white knuckled, to keep them from flying at the other, “For what?  Monitoring vampires?!”

David seemed to be cognitively aware of his sudden agitation and yet it did not bother the other immortal.  He simply continued, making a see-saw motion with his flat palm as he corrected, “Not specifically, no.  Monitoring supernatural events and beings, including vampires.”

“Wait…what are you getting at?” John’s rage was growing out of check now, mostly because he didn’t care anymore.  He rose from his chair and even though the other man was a whole head above him, he pointed a venomous finger towards the other, as he accusingly suggested, “Are you trying to say that she was part of a conspiracy to turn me into a vampire?!”

David didn’t move in reaction to the doctor’s violent rise in temper.  His caramel orbs rolled back slightly, his face taking on a bored expression, as he leveled the shorter man with a look John was more familiar with Sherlock giving him, “John, she’s dead, so obviously she was not a part of it.”

“Ermmmm…” John swallowed what he was about to say and it came out a garbled growl.  He felt stupid for making such a quick irrational accusation and so finally, still confused, he demanded, “So, what exactly are you trying to tell me then?” 

“I don’t have all the details,” David confessed, his voice returned to that impassive diplomatic tone, John felt was surely meant to school him, “but what I can tell you is that my sources indicate that Mary was a part of this group and then that she wasn’t.  Leaving is not supposed to be easy but the Talmasca is still diplomatic.  I know, I was a part of this organization for a long time before I was turned.  They would not murder a deserter.  She must have been on the run from someone far more dangerous and, given your involvement, she must have let her guard down.  That is ultimately the truth behind why she was murdered.”

“Well, who the hell are these people?”

The dark head shook in concerned reprimand.  “Again, I don’t have all the answers.  If you truly seek vengeance, I would highly recommend that you drop such a petty pursuit and let the dead have their peace.  Mary cannot benefit from whatever justice you seek.”

That was the last thing John wanted to hear.  “So, I should just let Mary’s murderer go unpunished?”

“What would going after them solve?” David asked, like a well-trained lawyer in a courtroom, skillfully playing devil’s advocate. “It’s a shame that murder should beget murder.”  He paused and licked his lips, his eyes sympathetic and calculating as they regarded the doctor.  Finally, he added, “I do understand your grief and your desire for retribution.  If it had been my lover I may feel the need to seek the same outcome, but this will bring you nothing—,”

“Can you find me the name or not?” John snapped, peevishly.

David sighed again, long and grating, as fingers came up and rubbed at his temple.  “I myself cannot but I do still have some connections that may be of use here.” the vampire admitted.  Then his demeanor shifted from one of sympathy and compassion to something else John was not sure he liked.  “The question is…why should I?”

John’s teeth gnashed together in a snap, keeping a curse at bay.  He raked a frustrated hand back through his hair and after a moment of deliberation, he sighed, and growled, “Well…what do you want?”

“In this case, it is not about what I want.” The other vampire said, “It is about what a mutual acquaintance of ours wants.”

Now this certainly did bamboozle the doctor.  Eyebrows knit over his eyes, as he skeptically pondered aloud, “Er?  Who the _hell_ would I know…that you do?”

John heard it then, the approaching footsteps, the turn of a hand on the knob of the office door.  He could hear the mechanisms inside moving as the door was pushed open and he could then the beating of a mortal heart in the chest of the man that entered the room.  “Oh, please, don’t be so dim, John.  How my brother managed to withstand your simplicity I will never know.  Like watching a gold fish try to solve a riddle.”

John smiled again.  It was not because he was pleased to see the man, in his light grey bespoke suit.  “Isn’t that just pants.  Of course…it’s Mycroft _fucking_ Holmes.  Well, I see you have lost none of your charm.”

Mycroft smiled his smarmy high-nosed thin lipped smile, those dark dull eyes peering down at him, as he came to stand by David.  “The same could be said of you, Doctor Watson.”

John certainly felt set up now, just not in the way he had expected.  Somehow that always seemed to be the case with the elder Holmes.  He crossed his arms and decided he had little alternative.  If he wanted to find Mary’s killer and he did not want to involve the younger Holmes, it was obvious that he would have to work with the bastard.  He repeated his previous inquiry, with a few extra expletives, “So what the bloody fucking hell do you want from me?”

“The usual I am afraid.” Mycroft said in his droning public school tone, as he leaned a hand against the top of the desk, “My sweet little brother has once again ended up in a heap of trouble that is beyond my depth of expertise and you now have acquired the skills and abilities that we shall say are endemic to your species.”  John had never thought he would ever hear things put quite like that ever again.  Then, Mycroft delivered his answer, in a much more succinct fashion, “I want him back, preferably alive.”

The doctor gave an incredulous gusting laugh. “And you think that I know where he is?  Last I saw the cock, he was with Lestat.”

“We are well aware of that.” David replied, just as cool as his cohort. 

“What the hell do you want me to do about it?  I don’t know where they are!” John snapped at the two of them, not quite sure he could believe that they were asking of him.  They both certainly knew who Lestat was and what he was capable of.  “I don’t want to have anything to do with either of them!  I’m no match for Lestat.  He will bloody well kick my ass and the both of you know it."

“That is exactly why I want Sherlock away from him.” Mycroft answered.

“So Sherlock is…is not a vampire then?” the question came out surprised and quiet with his realization.  He had hoped as much, but it was certainly another thing to have it confirmed. 

Mycroft looked down his straight nose at him.  “No he is not, for reasons that I am not at liberty to discuss.”

“Of course you’re not at _bloody_ liberty to discuss them!” John exploded, throwing his arms up into the air, as he shook his head and rolled his eyes.  This was exactly the kind of extortion that he had thought would be behind him and here he was, still in the thick of Mycroft’s scheming and spying.

David stepped forward, slightly between them, raising his hands in a placating manner, as he explained, “That being as it is, we know that the two of them are returning to London soon, if they have not already.” 

John could feel his eye twitch in irritation as he sucked in a sharp breath and snipped. "Oh well, not exactly asking for much, are we? What do you think I should do then—hmm? Just show up and _steal_ Sherlock away from Lestat?  The guy who _killed_ me?!"  
  
John clenched his fists before he rose, turning away and raking a hand through his sandy hair. David cast a glance at Mycroft who arched a manicured brow, the state of his umbrage evident. He drew in a slow and deliberate breath, exhausted with the whole exchange.

"Not exactly, John. You are entirely correct that you are no match for your maker. I want you to, instead, join their little 'duo' and report on their activities." Mycroft had only enough time to blink before the sudden whoosh of air stirred his tie and John was in front of him, inexplicably close and silent with eyes dark and dangerous. The movement happened so quickly it almost startled the mortal man but he remained casual and stone faced, standing near the edge of a richly carved wooden desk. A paper rustled with its settling on the table before John burst. 

"Deja-fuckin'-vu!" John spat. David was poised only a few feet from the two, ready to intervene yet he did nothing as the irate vampire continued.  John pointed a finger up Mycroft’s snobby nose and reminded the elder Holmes, "You asked me once to spy on him and report back to you and I'm fairly sure you recall my answer." Every fiber of John wanted to punch the nerve right out of the tosser but he utilized ever ounce of restraint and settled on jabbing a finger at the man, mere centimeters from his chest. 

Mycroft remained placid in the affront and coolly replied back in an even tone, "Ah but this time is different, Doctor Watson. So, if you value the name of the person who ordered the death of your beloved Mary then you should understand this is your only way of getting it."

For the first time in his immortal life John flashed his fangs, truly furious.  His eyes flashed to the suddenly appealing throat as a wave of the powerful hunger roiled in his guts. Mycroft swallowed nervously despite his unflinching face and stopped David with only a raised palm. His tone was perfectly calm, "After all, it will be no small feat getting this name for you. Tit for Tat, John."

John looked Mycroft back in the eyes, the gaze was unwavering and utterly emotionless. 

"Mycroft you..."John began to sneer.  He was cut off as the man skillfully extracted himself from the others personal space.

"Care about my brother dearly. Yes." Mycroft stepped behind the desk and took a seat in the high backed leather office chair "Will you do this for me, John? For Sherlock?" The concern in his voice was genuine and it reminded the immortal that all his anger served no real purpose here.   
  
“Well, I don’t have much of a choice now do I?” John replied, frustration evident. He wasn’t doing this for Mycroft. Both of them knew it, despite his jumbled feelings regarding Sherlock, he truly did not want harm come to the man. Especially from the manipulative blond bastard.

“You always have a choice.” David’s voice was a cool balm in the heated room and despite the calm that John could feel off the other vampire he was enjoying wallowing in his aggravation.

“Well, thanks for making it for me.” John commented acridly.  Then he turned and stormed out of the room with all the huff of a temper-tantrum. Despite feeling a little foolish over it all afterwards, he did feel marginally better when he had slammed the door of the office behind him and heard the crack and splinter of the expensive dark oak frame.


	7. Chapter 7

The trip was swifter than the detective could have anticipated but then again the vampire was racing the dawn.  There had been a private fishing boat waiting for them at the small dock and the two of them were taken to Benbecula, where the two of them then boarded a small private jet.

They had said little until the jet had taken off and even then Lestat was slim on the real details, focusing instead on elaborating all the fanciful little distracting tidbits regarding his time away.  He explained that the jet was his, that he had learned to be financially successful early on in his immortal life, and had the means to buy a small country at his disposal if he so desired to do so.  He talked briefly about his early vampirical years then, portraying himself the hero or the victim in the struggle with the very real gifts and slights of being undead, and then when his questions became too pestering and boring Sherlock was tossed a couple of paper backs.

"What are these for?” he scoffed, looking down at the simple covers.  One was titled _Interview with the Vampire_ and the other _The Vampire Lestat,_ these were the books that came up when he was researching the vampire earlier so he was already familiar with what they were.  He had, however, at that time disregarded their credibility, believing then that the vampire was but a man, emulating a fictional character. 

“You may want to read them and save us both some time.” He said, and then added, more distractedly, “There are many more but this is a good start for now."

“I have read them.” The detective replied, tossing both books back into the others lap, haphazardly, “They still don’t explain everything.”

“None of us really know everything.” Lestat said with a smirk and quirked eyebrow.  “Not the kind of ‘everything’ that your mind seeks at any rate.  That would require scientific testing and you would be hard pressed to find any of our kind that would be willing to allow a subject to be tested, let alone volunteer.  Once you are a vampire it matters little how or why everything is the way that it is, only that you are and now always will be.”

Sherlock gave wan nod of his dishevelled head.  That did make sense to him and given the nature of what they were it would be genocide to bring it to the public’s attention, which scientific study would ultimately end in.  There lay his problem, if he were to try and help John. 

“Forget about it, Sherlock,” Lestat chuckled deeply, waving a dismissive hand in his direction, “you cannot undo what has been done, no matter how clever you think you are.”

Sherlock gave the vampire a glare and in response Lestat sighed and replied, “No, I cannot read your mind.”  He clucked his tongue and then amended his previous statement with a drawn out, “Yet.  That thought was blatantly written on your pensive cheekbones.  I can read many minds but your’s…”  The vampire’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his response, before finally delivering an explanation, “well, it is fascinatingly closed.  A trait you irritatingly share with that imperious elder brother of yours.”

That explained a lot.  The headaches, the feeling of being watched, the feeling of intrusion that had overcome him in the nights leading up to the penthouse debacle.  It had all been Lestat trying to break in. 

“It is rather curious,” the vampire mused, propping his chin in his hand, as he reclined in the leather seat of the private jet, crossing his legs casually, “I have come across very few mortals who are able to keep me out.  You should feel privileged.”  Sherlock received the most wicked of smirks from across the isle and then the vampire changed the subject.  “If you want to help your doctor then the best thing that you can do for him now is to help him accept what he has become.  It is really a gift.  A gift for both of you.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed tighter, forming a thin white line across the bottom of his face.  Then he turned slightly away from the devilish creature.  He knew that the gesture could be construed as childish, but it didn’t matter.  There was no where to go and no way to get away from the creature, regardless of the confines of the private jet.

“It is.” Lestat insisted, having seen the resentment plainly. “I have given the both of you the gift of a life together forever.  To solve all your crimes and all your mysteries, to continue the work without the threat of death, illness, or immobility.”

“You have not succeeded in turning me.” Sherlock snapped back, his voice like the crack of a whip, exclaiming his bitterness.

“And together we will change that.” Lestat chuckled, proffering an open palm at the detective across the isle from himself.  “I have the world famous consulting detective on the case.  We will have a little fun with this adversary that has risen between us and then you too shall share in the new life I have given your doctor.”

They said little else of consequence on the rest of the ride to London and when Sherlock finally arrived back at Baker Street he was thoroughly exhausted.  Marisa had been right.  It would take a while for him to build up his stamina to where it had been before. 

It was just before dawn and so the vampire left the detective at the flat with the instruction to sleep, so he would be ready the next evening to start their investigation together.  Sherlock hated to do as he was told but he had not the strength to do otherwise at that point.  The bed was littered still with bits and pieces of debris from their previous encounter in the room.  The detective grabbed the top cover and gave it a shake before falling in.  As soon as his head hit the pillow sleep took him 

***

The Irishman stood outside the black door of the flat he had been recently checking in on every couple of days, awaiting to be granted access.  He shoved his hand back in his pocket after having rung the buzzer.  It was cold out and the rain had turned more into a thick wet mizzle that soaked through anything.  He could feel the droplets forming on his brow and in his hair, ready to slip down the collar of his shirt, but he had resigned to the fact long ago that there was no escaping it.

Lestrade had been on a case that afternoon when his phone rang.  He had been in the middle of a crime scene, side stepping glass shards, bullet casings, and the placid body of what earlier had been a vibrant young man, and so had left the caller ignored.  He would check his voicemail when he got back into his squad car.  Yet, when the phone rang a second time, only moments apart, the vibrations of the silenced mobile in his pocket had warranted a glance.  The illuminated screen showed that it was one  _M. Hudson._ This deserved a call back.

Lestrade had been by the flat many times over the past several weeks to keep tabs on the place and the elderly land lady, who was becoming more and more distressed by her tenants unexpected absence.  The inspector was concerned about his friend’s disappearance as well.  It was not uncommon for the consulting detective to piss off and leave everyone to worry about what the bloody hell he was up to, but John and Mary were also still missing, and Sherlock was supposed to be looking for them.  At first it was just weird and now it was leaning towards suspicious.  He had given Mrs. Hudson his personal mobile number in case she had heard from either of them.  He had to call her back.

Excusing himself from the scene, he left Donovan in charge, and left the dry cleaners through the glassless front door.  Before he made the call he took the precaution of popping a fag in his mouth and taking his first drag.  The smoke hit his lungs with a wash of relief as he hit redial on his mobile.  The call rang only once before the shaken voice of the elderly woman answered.

They exchanged polite greetings, she apologized for bothering him, and he dismissed it, before she finally laid out the purpose of her call, the reason for the quaver in her tone.  “You had said that if I heard from either of the boys that I should get in contact with you.” She explained, her tone still apologetic and sounding confused.  “And, wouldn’t you know— I have a terrible memory—I can’t remember if I told you about the post card I received in the mail a couple of weeks ago—,”

“Uh, yes, in fact you did.” He interrupted her, already knowing all of this.  He reminded her of what they had already spoken about, “The one from John and Mary, saying they had moved to…Cyprus, wasn’t it?”

“That still doesn’t make any sense though.  John would _never_ say that he was sick of Sherlock.  Those two need one another like a cup needs a saucer.” She protested in her endearingly quaint tone. 

Still, the detective grimaced at that point.  It was not as though Sherlock Holmes was easy to handle.  At best the consulting detective was intolerable.  There were moments, most often that John Watson was responsible for, when the man was endurable but those were few and far between. 

Mrs. Hudson continued reasoning despite his thoughts.  “Besides, there was only a woman involved because John thought Sherlock was dead.  I stood by that grave with him after the funeral, all stifled tears and sobs.  John would never leave Sherlock—,”

Once again Lestrade found himself having to interject, in order to move the conversation along.  He did have a crime scene to get back to.  He started by clearing his throat before he deftly cut in, “Be that what it may, Mrs. Hudson, is there another reason why you have called me today?”

“Well, yes, of course.  I went out early this morning to have tea with an old girlfriend of mine,” she started in her rambling speech, less shaken now, “and so I didn’t see it at first, but when I came home I spotted it right after lunch.  A note.  From John.”

“A note?” the inspector questioned.  It was certainly fishy.  “It didn’t come in the mail?”

“No.” she said, in almost a whisper.  The quaver was back, “I got the mail the day before and this note was not in an envelope.”

“Do you think someone was in your flat?” he snapped, his training kicking in and replacing his polite tact. 

“Oh, I hope not.  I don’t think so,” came back the rushed whisper.  “Everything seems in its place but it is odd, isn’t it?  I found it just sitting on my side table, by the phone, like John had just stopped by and decided to, you know, leave a note.”

“What does it say?” he asked.  It came out in a rush, almost a bark, but the old woman did not seem to take offense.

“It says, ‘Out on a case with Sherlock, if you were worried.  Not sure when we will be back.’” She read aloud.  He could hear the paper in her hands.  “And then he signed it, just ‘John’.  I don’t know what to make of it.  I thought that the post card was strange but this is…well, just odd, is what it is. 

“That certainly is very interesting.” He agreed, “Look, I can’t come over just now, Mrs. Hudson.  I have to settle a few things first but lock your door and don’t let anyone else in until I get there.”

“Okay,” she said, sounding gratefully, “thank you.”

Lestrade went straight back into the crime scene, finding that Donovan had done a bang up job seeing to the evidence, the body, and the crew.  The inspector took back over and helped finish the few loose ends that were left and was out of the scene in an hour.  Sally was pleased to have been handed the reigns to the murder-suicide investigation and Lestrade instead headed straight for Baker Street. 

Mrs. Hudson came to the door and he was relieved to hear the lock slide back before she opened it.  Again they exchanged polite salutations before he followed the woman into 221A, where she already had a pot of tea steeping on the kitchen table.  He took off his coat and shoes, taking a seat at the table, as she poured him a cup.  The note and the post card were out on the table.

Lestrade accepted the tea and pulled both items closer to inspect them.  The post card was of Paphos, clearly displaying the crystal blue waters and pristine white beaches.  The back was written in a fairly rolling hand, not too bubbly but distinctly female, with a short but simple sentiment.   _Wanted to drop you a line and let you know that we have decided to change locals.  Nothing personal but we needed some space from Sherlock to ground ourselves and our relationship.  Love, Mary and John._   He felt that it would be correct to assume that because the postcard was signed with Mary’s name preceding John’s and by the femininity of the script that she had penned the note. 

The inspector flipped the heavy cardstock over in his hand, noting the laminated picture, the stubbed corner, and the ink stamp over the postage stamp.  To anyone else this note might seem legit—Lord only knew that they both had experienced Sherlock at his worst and wished to be somewhere else—yet both he and the elderly land lady, who knew the doctor fairly well, felt that it was out of character.  They did not know Mary as well, perhaps Lestrade had known her the best out of John and Sherlock’s former circle of close friends, and even he had only met the pretty blond with the bubbly yet strikingly confident personality a hand-full of times. 

The inspector had to admit that after the consulting detective had been buried, he had only visited John now and again.  It was painful for all of them.  Lestrade remembered leaving John’s new flat after a glass of bourbon and awkward forced conversation, thinking that Sherlock Holmes was the lucky one.  The fall had killed the detective but it had irrevocably broken John Watson.  It had been hard to see the man like that and it was doubly difficult to do anything about it.  The doctor had changed his address, stopped calling, and shut out everything else.  His only saving grace had been Mary Morstan.

When Lestrade had received a ‘yes’ to his pub invite from John for the first time in months, he had arrived to find a new man with a brilliant woman at his side.  They had been happy and giddy in one another’s company.  John was amiable and his warm smile had returned, even though it seemed to only be for Mary.  The three of them shared a grand time together and Lestrade thought that just maybe John had finally made it through and had moved on.  They had met together a couple more times, once for John’s birthday, another to watch the game, and all of them came with an ease that the inspector had relished. 

This card in his hand spoke of that love for one another, for a tenacity to engage fully in a relationship together, without the intrusion of the newly reincarnated consulting detective.  Lestrade just had trouble believing it.  Mary Morstan was not the jealous type.  The woman had seemed intrigued by the lanky brooding detective and Lestrade knew for a fact that John had been complaining of the woman’s pestering to push the two friends back together.  John had been the reluctant one.

When Lestrade recalled the first time he had seen the two men back together, he remembered seeing that broken John again—not shattered anymore but wounded—the deep kind that healed but would forever burn and ache.  The second time they had seemed more themselves, as though pieces were shifting back into place, and their friendship was working more smoothly.  In the end, if it had not been for Mary’s unquestioning faith in Sherlock and the detective’s genius-quick mind, John would have burned to death in that pyre.    

That thought made the inspector grimace.  Mrs. Hudson, who was seated now across from him at the small square table, hands circled round her mug of tea, tsked.  Her eyes were not on him, but on the card he was still slowly spinning in his hands.  She shook her head, her dark blond hair was almost grey.  From behind the dark tortoise-colored frames her eyes were glassy.  “John would never leave Sherlock.” She repeated determinedly.

Lestrade’s lips pursed tightly, as he nodded his reluctant agreement.  The postcard no longer made sense, not with the note, the inspector knew for certain that was written in John’s hand.  It had been written quickly, some of the ink had smudged, but the long striking strokes of his quick straight hand was distinctive.  Lestrade had read enough of John’s reports to remember it.  Finally, in a pinched voice, he answered the woman across from him, “I have to agree with you Mrs. Hudson.  John and Mary are not the type to pack up and leave, especially not because of Sherlock’s antics.”

There was a moment of silence, when the two of them both sipped musingly at their tea, before the woman added, “I know John was mad about it all.  The death, the…well, the not-being-dead-anymore.  It was confusing for all of us.  But he wouldn’t leave London for it.”

Lestrade placed the postcard back on the table between them and took the note.  It was written on half a piece of paper, crumbled and used.  There was John’s note and then there was other words, scrawled absently.  The paper had been torn from something else of Sherlock’s, his long sweeping drawn out hand was what made up the other words.  When he tried to make them all out he came up with ‘interview with the’, ‘fictional’, ‘copycat’, and ‘Lestat’—whatever that was all supposed to mean.  So it was more than likely that John had been in 221B when he had grabbed the paper to leave the note.  There was no telling how long ago that had been, but he was certain it had been within the last thirty-six hours.  The note was by the phone after all. 

“So, you didn’t see anyone then?  No one came by to see 221B or…?” his question trailed off.

“No.” she said emphatically.  “No one but those bloody reporters.”

Lestrade had heard about them as well.  The media was hungry for a story and when Sherlock up and disappeared suddenly it was important that John and Mary were missing as well.  Some had been digging pretty deep to come up with anything to write about and unfortunately Sherlock’s name was still fresh on the minds of readers.  He had seen a paper just this morning that claimed to have seen the detective return last night to the Baker Street flat, displaying a grainy photo of a silhouette in the windows.  He had not stopped to read the story.  It was preposterous at best. 

The reporters, however, had been bothering Mrs. Hudson.  That was a part of the reason why he had made a point of stopping by more often and had assigned an extra beat to the area.  Still it was hard to keep them at bay.  The woman had admitted to being hounded at her door and even out buying the groceries, even though there was nothing to tell.  All three people had just vanished.

Almost as if on cue, the water pipes began to groan as taps were turned on.  The sound was familiar enough yet Lestrade questioned the land lady, “Hasn’t your other tenant left for America?”

“Yes,” she replied with a nod, “I haven’t heard a lick from him either, but he did forward enough rent to cover the rest of the year, saying he would return when he was finished whatever business it was that had called him away.  He was an odd fellow.  Pale as a ghost but awfully charming to talk to.”

“So, correct me if I’m wrong then, but,” Lestrade interjected, when she made to take a breath between rambling sentences, “there is no one else in the building.”

“That’s right.” She said with a sad smile.  She lifted a hand gesturing at the walls behind him where the sound of the water pipes was still running and she added, “I think I’ve been hearing things.  I knew my cataracts were getting bad but apparently my ears are going as well.  I’ve been hearing all kinds of things today.”

“Like the pipes?” he snapped, sounding a little too incredulous. 

“Oh and other things, dear.” She admitted, frowning into her tea cup, “It’s sad, really, the state one is reduced too as we age.”

Lestrade wasn’t sure he could believe the woman.  If the pipes were running someone had turned the water on, either in the flat above or below.  His chair screeched back as he rushed to get to his feet, making the older woman jump.  He made hasty apologies as he explained he was going to have a look around, when there came an abrupt bellow from above.

“Mrs. Hudson!!!”

There was no mistaking the voice.


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade,” the detective huffed irritably, as he childishly folded his arms over his chest like a petulant child rebuking a parental command, “there was no reason why I should have informed anyone of my departure.  I am a grown man.  I can come and go from the flat I pay rent for as I so please.”

“You had us worried sick, you bastard!” Lestrade condemned, in a strained bark.  He raked a hand back through his silvered crop, his teeth clenched to keep back a few more ungentlemanly comments, even though Mrs. Hudson had already returned to her flat downstairs, teary eyed but ecstatic to have her eccentric tenant returned. 

The detective had demanded tea and by the time that they had rushed up the stairs the man had locked the bathroom door and proceeded to take a long shower.  The damn prick.  In lieu of the man’s presence and explanation the inspector had taken it upon himself to investigate the flat.  He had already done so, when Mrs. Hudson had alerted him to the fact that the consulting detective had not returned home for several days, and he found the flat in a similar condition now.  The bedroom was the most troubling, with its smashed drywall and what he had thought for sure was blood. 

The bed had been recently slept in, even though Lestrade felt the room must have been uncomfortable with all the wreckage, and there were new clothes spread out on the floor.  What there wasn’t in the flat, was any sign of John or Mary.

When the man had finally exited the shower, wrapped in his blue satin housecoat, Lestrade was astounded at his physical appearance.  Sherlock had always been thin, bordering on gaunt, and his lofty height had left him looking lanky.  Now he was almost a skeleton of his former self.  Those high cheek bones seemed even more pronounced and the bags under his eyes were purple from lack of sleep, accentuated by the unsettling ashen pallor of his skin. 

“You look like shit,” he had blurted—he felt a slight wave of deja vu as he recalled the last time he had met with the detective.  In all honesty he looked slightly worse this time around than he had then, even without the dried blood and bruising.

Sherlock only grunted a response, shaking his hands back through his soaking wet mop of dark curls, pulling them back from his eyes, as Mrs. Hudson squeaked her delight at seeing him alive—even if he did not look well.  As he had demanded she had a cup of tea for him and he took it brusquely from her, before taking up a seat in his leather chair.  He crossed his legs and took a sip of the tea, savoring it, before he derisively snapped, “Spare me your unintelligent questions.  I have not the time to waste on stupid answers.  Yes, I have been away. Yes, I have returned. No I do not know where John is and, yes, I am still looking for him.”

He had answered the majority of their questions in the decidedly abrupt manner of his and Mrs. Hudson had simply toddled forward, leaning down towards her tenant. The disgruntled man allowed her to leave a mothering kiss on his cheek, even made a pathetic attempt at a smile, before she left.  Then those pale orbs had landed on Lestrade and their little argument had ensued.

It was useless to question him on where he had been.  His immediate and only response was that he had been looking for John.  The consulting detective always said John, never Mary, and finally Lestrade had called him out on it. 

“I say I am looking for John specifically because that _is_ what I am doing.” He had ground out each word, shaking with agitation, as he explained, “If you have yet to work it out, Lestrade, which I have no doubt that you have not, Mary-Morstan-is-dead.  John is not.  Therefore, I am clearly not looking for a woman I know is deceased, I am looking for John.”

“Then where is the body, Sherlock?” the inspector retaliated, angered that the detective was being so peevish.

Exasperated, the man’s hands flew apart and animatedly waved around, as he cried, “Does it matter?  She’s dead!  Who cares where they took her corpse?!  John is still out there and my focus lies with finding where.  I have no care to find dead bodies.”

Lestrade was taken aback by that.  He had dismissed the awful thoughts that haunted him in his weakest moments, when he was tired and worried sick about his friend and his fiancé.  Losing Mary would put John Watson right back to where he had been.  Was that why he was missing?  His dark eyes shot back to Sherlock, who seemed to want to evade the intense gaze and scrambled out of the leather chair.  The detective began to pace, his feet seemingly at war with where his mind felt that he should go, his hands the entire time fidgeting.  It all put the inspector very much ill at ease.

“Perhaps you should see the post then.” Lestrade finally managed to say.  It was no longer strained, no longer angry.  Just sad and full of regret.  If anyone was going to figure out what in the bloody hell happened at that flat when Mary Morstan was killed and John went missing, it was this damn mess of a genius consulting detective now pacing the parlor. 

Sherlock froze, suddenly still, those eyes narrowing on the inspector.  “Post?” he asked.

Lestrade produced the postcard first, handing it to the groping fingers of the detective, as he explained, “Mrs. Hudson received this in the post about a fortnight back.”

Sherlock’s pale eyes scrutinized the cardstock, making quick work of his examination, flipping it over only twice before proclaiming, “It’s a fake.  A decoy to placate the easily dissuaded.”  He ripped the postcard in half and tossed the pieces aside. 

Lestrade’s teeth clenched, as he fought back the urge to swear at the ignorant man.  He had wanted to keep the damn card as evidence, in case they actually found who had done this to their friends.  Yelling would solve nothing now.  It was in two.  He bent forward and picked up the two pieces, as Sherlock cocked his head to the side and snidely quipped, “You didn’t honestly believe that blather, did you?  It’s completely preposterous.”

The inspector straightened and huffed a heavy sigh, admitting churlishly, “I did for a bit, yeah.  Not hard to think that Mary and John got sick of you acting like a cock all the time.”  Sherlock made to interject and for the sake of averting another useless argument, he snapped, “That was until Mrs. Hudson told me she got a note from John today.”

Sherlock’s eyes went from tiny violent slits to saucers and then back again in a split second.  It was actually fairly comical and Lestrade had to restrain from grinning, as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the note.  The detective’s fingers snapped it from his hands, nearly tearing the paper.  Those eyes inspecting the note and grew wide once more, as he whispered, “It’s…John.”

“I thought so myself.” Lestrade added, feeling fairly proud to have the detective agree with his assessment.

Sherlock took the note and his feet carried him back into his frenzied pacing, as he muttered like a mad-man, “He was here.  He came back to Baker Street…”

Lestrade watched his friend in his manic state and finally knew for certain that Sherlock was indeed taking things seriously.  He did not, however, feel very relieved by this.  Sherlock was half the man he was a month ago.  He looked depraved, stock-raving mad, and his physical state was ghastly.  Yet there was little that the inspector could do about it.  Sherlock Holmes would never allow it.  Still, he tried, “I will order some take away then and we can discuss things—,”

Sherlock whirled about on his heel and with those wild wide eyes he exclaimed, “No!  You must leave!  Now!”  The consulting detective marched to the door, opening it and swinging his arm in a wide sweep through it, gesturing his need for the inspector to depart.  Immediately.  When Lestrade returned a thin-lipped glare, the detective gave an exasperated sigh, throwing his head back dramatically and bending at the knees, before he growled through grit teeth, “John will never come back if you stay.  It has to be just me and even then I cannot be certain!  Trust me, if we are to have any chance at finding him this is it.” 

Then to the inspector’s surprise, the detective did something he least expected.  He straightened, his back going rigid as he squared his shoulders.  In a calm pleading tone, Sherlock Holmes asked him, “Please, Lestrade.”

Still Greg did not want to go.  He wanted as much as anyone to find John, to see the man alive and well again.  Sherlock looked as though he was about to grab the inspector and toss him out, when Greg’s cell vibrated in his coat pocket.  A call.  He fished it out to see that Donovan was after him.  He sighed and left the call to go to voicemail, as he walked to the door of the flat.  He stopped only long enough to warn the detective, “Inform me the minute you have any new information and I mean it, Sherlock!”

Sherlock just nodded his head, those wet curls beginning to frizz as they air dried, but he looked sincere.  Reluctantly Lestrade left the flat and returned to the Yard.

 

***

 

The consulting detective had paced the parlor until his feet were warm and his calves ached, begging for him to lay off and take a rest.  When he finally did, he flopped down onto the couch with a long grating growl, wrapping his house coat about him tighter.  There he lay.  Alone and pouting.

He had never been a patient man and waiting for John was proving to be more difficult than he had at first predicted.  The note and the postcard that Lestrade had produced were most intriguing, finally a clue as to who it was that meant Mary and John harm that fateful night weeks ago.  Still it had been sloppy. 

The postcard was written by a woman, trying in vain to mimic Mary Morstan’s handwriting.  Perhaps a lazy distracted graphologist would assume they were one in the same but Sherlock was not fooled for a second.  The ‘L’s were forced and heavy, characteristic of shaky hand, when eyes are darting back and forth between the writer’s sample and the new work, as well as the fact that the overall slant to Mary’s hand was missing.  Plus, there was the simple fact that a dead woman could not write or put a card in the post.  So, whomever had was most certainly linked to the woman’s assailant. 

Sherlock had also felt that Louis de Pointe du Lac also knew who the attacking party was.  It had been this vampire after all that had taken it upon himself to ‘save’ John or whatever you wanted to call it.  Regardless of the imprisonment and everything else that may have transpired between the vampire and the doctor in that penthouse the end result was still the same.  John was gone.

Thinking of John again made his stomach clench, as he felt the anxious tickling sensation many referred to as ‘butterflies’.  John had been in the flat.  John was back.  He had been so close.

Sherlock had hoped that John would return as soon as night fell, wondering how long after the man had been at Baker Street had he and Lestat returned.  He felt slightly ashamed to have not noticed that John had been there until Lestrade had produced the note and had scoured the flat after the inspector had left for signs of John.  There were no obvious clues. 

The man lazily rolled his head against the union jack pillow under his head, to see the take away that had arrived an hour after Lestrade had taken his leave.  It had not been touched and was by now most certainly a congealed mass at the bottom of the Styrofoam container.  His stomach growled in protest as if on cue and with a lopsided smirk the detective scooped up the lamb curry, as he got up off of the couch. 

Anything would be better than puffin.  He took the container to the kitchen and fished out a plate from the cupboard, scooping half the curry onto it, before popping it into the microwave.  The first time it beeped the sauce was too hot and the lamb was still cold.  The second time he retrieved it the sauce was baked onto the plate and the lamb was dried out.  Still, he managed a few bites before scraping the remains into the garbage, still unsettled and unsatisfied. 

From the kitchen, he paced into the bedroom, checking the street through the window.  Then he returned to the parlor, glancing behind the curtains to the night beyond.  Sherlock fished his mobile from the pocket of his housecoat, checking the lock-screen for messages.  Nothing.  He returned to the bedroom and for the first time since returning to the flat, acknowledged the mess.

John must have seen it, if he had been in the flat.  As a vampire now, he must have caught the scent of blood—his blood.  Mrs. Hudson had tried to clean up the mess created by his brawl with the blond vampire, but it was superficial.  With nothing else to occupy his wandering mind the detective set to straightening what was still there, always listening, wondering, and hoping that John would visit.

After an hour or two of accomplished work the detective felt his mobile vibrate against his thigh, through the satin fabric of the house coat.  He nearly fumbled the damned thing trying to get it out of his pocket, knocking over a stacks of dirty dishes intermixed with beakers and test tubes that crashed loudly into the sink of the kitchen.  It had only vibrated once—a text alert—and on the illuminated screen the detective could make out a grainy picture of what looked like two men.  It was from a mobile number that the man did not recognize.

His thumb swiped across the screen and he opened the phone to inspect the thumbnail in full view.  When the picture was enlarged, it was obvious that it was not a message from John, yet he was propelled into motion all the same.  He frantically dashed to the bedroom, shedding the blue house coat and struggling into clothes.  The shirt and pants were rumpled but he had them on and was out the door to the flat in record time.  The phone pinged again, as he flagged down the closest taxi he could find and bellowed at the driver to take him to the address provided by the texter.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP--PLEASE TAKE NOTE!!  
> There was a chapter mixup that I have now corrected. Chapter 6 was missing! -_-;;;;  
> Life was a little busy. So please go back and read chapter 6 and then proceed to chapter 9 if you have read the chapters in between. I apologize for the mistake.

It had been twenty years. Cafe' au lait with just a hint too much milk. The texture was finer than silk, smooth, pore-less as it was flawless. Feeling the sensation through the warm and worn fingertips of the man by the blood-link that filled his mouth caused David to moan in duel pleasure to that of the body trembling against him. 

Mycroft Holmes had changed little since David had known him as a mortal, when the younger man had been a new rising star in the great halls of the British government’s less spoken of offices. He had had slightly more hair then and had been strangely more cynical than he appeared now. The two had met by accident, the unfortunate circumstances involved were what had eventually left him on uneven ground when it came to the Talmasca. At that time, he had already sat in the seat as the Superior General for close to five years. He had no longer been a spring chicken and yet, when their encounter had lead to heated nights together, bodies trembling, sweaty and naked, the difference in age between his old mortal body and the 25-year-old Mycroft’s, had gone unnoticed. 

The images of that night rose through the hot rush of scarlet as the man now moaned throatily against him, hands gripping reflexively at David’s blazer as the vampire drank deeply from him with each pulse of his racing heart. 

Now was impossibly different, though. Now the young body was David’s and the first move had been his. He didn't try to read the man beyond what he could observe, something that was as natural to his subject as breathing was to anything else. He knew the desire just as keenly now as he had as a mortal man. 

It had been their equally keen minds that had drawn the two together back then and the dark-haired man with the watery-grey eyes, for all of his aloofness was painfully curious to know what secrets the older 'Classified Adviser' had. The first time they had found each other naked on the floor, sweaty and panting, had seemed to surprise both of them. They had been going over details for a case that David had been asked to liaison for.  He was artfully dodging pointed question after question, when Mycroft had suddenly grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. In all honestly, the thought had occurred to him a few times that shoving his tongue in the mans mouth would be the most intriguing way to shut his snide assumptions up and so, when the other had initiated, he retaliated in a heart-beat. 

They fell into situations like this a few times before the incident they had been working on had been dealt with, to a level in which all parties were satisfied. Each of them had other ventures and neither were unrealistic about what their interactions ultimately were at that time. They had encountered one another only twice more, prior to David's introduction to Louis and Lestat, once intimately and the other at a high-level function where unfortunately there was no distractions from his prior commitments. 

David pressed his tongue against the tangy wound he had made in the mortal’s skin, healing it as quickly as it had been made, as his kisses continued upward from where his bite had left off. Mycroft’s own blazer had been shoved off, shirt buttons half undone as the vampire’s slender fingers slid deftly over heated skin to continue their work and expose the rest of the mans heaving chest.  The shirt was pulled back from one shoulder, another button was slid undone, and then it was pressed off of the other and David allowed the other man to push back so he could straighten and shed the barrier between their bodies completely. 

It was only a moment.  Then David surged forward and captured the other’s hungry earnest mouth with his own as his hands grasped his backside fully and lifted the mortal up onto the desk top, pushing his legs apart and pressing their bodies flush.  The new body he owned now had been strong without the dark gifts effects and it was also slightly taller than his counterpart.  That was why the desk worked so well in this situation.

David continued his descent, moving his mouth from the other’s down to his collar bone, nipple, and then slid his tongue along the length of torso to the naval, all the while spurred to continue further by the rapturous gasps and moans elicited from above as he worked.  He could feel Mycroft’s hands in his hair, running through and pulling at the dark curls that covered his head.  The grasping fingers of the mortal made the vampire smile, as he lowered even further, coming to his knees before the man, reaching a new barrier. 

With his incredible speed, he made quick work of the belt and the fly of the trousers, as Mycroft’s skeptical eyes watched.  This mortal, that others regarded as being made of ice, melted under his experienced hands and that was why David had been drawn back into loving this creature.  This was something that they had shared and could share again, renewed through the dark gift of vampirism.  There were few people in the abundancy of this world that Mycroft Holmes would consider well suited enough to be taken as his lover. 

David had been    The mortal’s need was evident enough as the trousers were opened and pushed roughly to the floor, followed by the cotton pants beneath.  Then he took him wholly into his mouth, careful to keep the hard yet soft flesh from his sharp teeth.  The strangled gasps from earlier were abandoned for a much more throaty erotic moan that roused David’s own growing lust and the fingers in his hair tightened their grip. 

David was not about taking things too quickly.  A few of their earlier encounters had been too new to be taken slowly and sometimes one’s lust was too strong and too urgent to allow for it.  Now David had all the time in the world and even though he had the gift of speed by the nature of his species, he would take this man here, on his own desk, slowly—if only to greedily soak up the sound of that last moan.

He pulled his head back and brought the man’s erection from his between his lips, letting them slip wetly off the head.  He licked with his tongue, slow lazy circles permeated by the odd quick flick, that left Mycroft panting again.  Then he would dive down, taking him wholly once more, reveling in the shudder that tensed the mortals body taut like a bow.  He repeated this pattern, the moans of the man music to his ears, until he felt the other drew close to climax.  One more throaty moan, his head fell back, he was on the precipice and David withdrew, keeping him there. 

With the other’s legs spread the vampire moved his mouth instead, nuzzling the thigh to the left with his chin and nose.  The flesh of the mortal body was so heated and supple, it was a pleasure just to hold it and lay kisses upon it.  David parted his lips and gently he bit into the soft skin, feeling the muscle tighten with the man’s slight discomfort.  The warm gush of blood that flooded his mouth was nearly overwhelming yet the flood of memories was just as erotic.

David was keenly aware that the man quavering beneath his suckle was a man capable of blocking even Lestat’s level of mental intrusion.  As one of the most powerful of their kind his maker’s gifts and abilities far surpassed his own and many others of their vampirical family.  He had been gifted the blood of the ancient’s, the Queen of their damned kind, and still this mortal was capable of blocking his intrusions.  All this was slowly being revealed to David through this connection, the bloodletting, the little samples that Mycroft seemed to enjoy as much as he did. 

David was no fool.  He realized of course that the mortal was also seeing memories of his own life, both when mortal and when damned, yet this was only a testament to the level of trust that the two men shared and was part of the drive they had to be in one another’s arms once more. 

The vampire’s drink was slow, he did not want to push either of them to that final point of climax and he also wished to linger in the memories of the other, lavishing in how the young ambitious Holmes had grown with age and with power.  He seen things that were current and things that were very old.  He seen people that the mortal loved and also those that he loathed.  He seen a young boy, a young Sherlock, always watching, ever present, learning to sneak and spy and learn much to his elder brother’s chagrin.  He seen the opium, the crack, and the heroin that had swallowed the boy and spit out a man.  He seen Mycroft’s pain, his guilt, and his declaration of retribution, and now fully understood the drastic measures at which his lover was willing to go to save his brother from the dark gift. 

David withdrew and healed the wound, lifting his head to see those intense eyes on him, fully aware of what the immortal had witnessed through the drink.  His mouth was set and determined.  David gave the man a nod, his nonverbal compliance to the man’s mission, and from a drawer on the other side of the desk the mortal withdrew a glass vile.  He passed it to David, the exchange supercharging their desire, bypassing the somber recollection of memories, as the vampire slicked his fingers with the unscented oil.

Mycroft’s head fell back as the vampire pressed one finger into the man. This made David’s smile quirk and his eyes darkened with lust.  He worked a slow pattern, each twist and gentle thrust making Mycroft pant and moan.  A sharp gasp of breath as a second finger joined the preparations and the vampire’s own erection was beginning to strain against the constraints of his jeans.  The other man’s own need was just as apparent, his erection flexing upwards as if pleading to be taken. 

David could not deny this lover—never could—and so David opened his mouth beckoningly. He allowed the mortal to see this, to know his earnest need for their passion, and he waited for Mycroft to push the head of his own cock once more past the vampire’s blood reddened lips and into the heat of his mouth.  Mycroft’s ragged breathing was matched with the pace at which David’s fingers still moved in and out of the man, grazing erotically against the prostate.  The vampire wrapped his fingers about the base of the cock in his mouth and began to work up to the pace of his other hand, working them opposite each other.  That got the man’s grasping hands back into his hair, pulling at the dark curls, as his head bobbed up and down the length of his straining cock.  David worked him to that point, bringing him back to the cusp, before he withdrew both all at once, and he rose from his knees. 

The mortal was just as eager, ready to continue, and those greedy fingers pulled at the buttons on his fly, popping them open.  David helped him to push the jeans down, along with the pants beneath, revealing his own hard need.  Mycroft grabbed the vile of oil and quickly slicked the length of dark golden skin, before leaning back and raising his legs in offer.  David’s smile grew, as he stepped up to the desk between them and hungrily leaned forward to take the mortals face in his hands.  He smothered the others mouth with his own, entangling their tongues, as he rocked sensually against the other. 

Mycroft could no longer wait, his impatience fueled by his long ignored urges and by David’s teasing, having been brought to that point of near ecstasy twice now without fulfillment.  His hands reached down between their bodies, even as David invaded his mouth with his own tongue, and grasped the vampire’s straining organ.  His intent was clear and David brought one hand down to assist.  He positioned himself to press against the other’s oil slicked opening.  Slowly he pressed the head of his own erection inside the hot confines, waiting for Mycroft to let out the breath he was holding, before he thrust inwards the rest of his length. 

“Bloody hell!” Mycroft gasped, his breaths panting once more, as David leaned his torso forward over the other, smiling wickedly.  “You’re a heathen.”

“You like it.” The vampire whispered, as he kissed the pink raised nipple of the chest beneath him.  He took his time now that he was in, circling each nipple with his tongue, until Mycroft was begging for more.  Then he acquiesced to the others pleas, slowly pulling back and moving forward, rocking into a rhythm that would keep them moaning together for hours in mutual desire.

***

There was a thrill that quickened his pulse as he watched the two men entangled in their ecstasy. He hadn’t really imagined the snooty and guarded mortal man to be the type who would go for the impropriety of a romp on the office desk. Government papers had been knocked askew, a lamp pushed back and dangerously close to meeting the floor, the order of the workspace completely forgotten for the passionate embraces that followed.

When Lestat had arrived at the mansion he had come with much different intentions than unannounced voyeurism, but that had all quickly changed when he had gone to make his usual grand entrance and the quickened pattering of a mortal heart was audible along side the more familiar vampirical beat of his fledgling’s.  This gave him pause. It was a wicked little delight to happen upon both his David and the elder Holmes brother entangled together. Both were far too engrossed in their activities to notice Lestat’s quiet entry. The older vampire had slipped through the partially opened French-styled doors of the home office space and was leaning casually, silent and still against the nearest bookcase. A shadow shielding the blond from the low light of the room and allowing him a spectacular vantage point to watch the show, completely unbeknownst to the two men.

They were former lovers, Lestat was certain of it despite being unable to glean anything from their closed minds. He surmised this from the way the two moved together as if one writhing creature, touching one another and eliciting groans of pleasure with such ease and accuracy. Though Lestat too had known David’s touch intimately, it had been a rare thing. The greater attraction and connections between them were not of the carnal desire he was observing here. The history between these two he would absolutely need to press them for after. 

The blond took this opportunity to truly take advantage of their distraction, assessing and appreciating the quality workmanship of the room, the painting of the Queen hung so reverently behind the desk on the wall, and then noting an unattended mobile phone discarded in the heat of their passion. It was, after all, simply laying on the floor, near an equally haphazardly jettisoned coat which trailed off to follow pants in a pathway towards the two entangled bodies slick and grinding against one another. In an instant Lestat had the mobile. He unlocked the screen after only a few quick patterns and his upper lip curled sneeringly as he flipped through the text history. The list was piteously short. Although listed in alphabetical order, as most of these phone’s did, it still irked him to see that the first name was Armand’s. 

Like the true childish deviant that Lestat was he renamed the contact at the head of the list, sending it far below his own with the new name ‘RepugnantArmand’.  He noted that Benji followed on the list, then Cybil.  He found his own contact and skillfully sent it to the top of the list by adding the word ‘AMAZING’ in all capitals before his name. He stifled a wicked cackle, as the thin pale finger scrolled down through the remaining list now beneath himself and he stopped when he saw ‘John Watson’. He had not noticed it before.  Curious, he opened the text message history and read the last message.

**‘It was a pleasure to meet you. Should you need anything, don’t hesitate to call. I am currently staying in London. Consider the offers presented to you and keep in touch.’**

**-DT**

There were only a few scattered greetings that preceded the message, exchanges of address and times, but it was more than enough to know that his newest fledgling was back in London. That meant that Louis was possibly in London as well or that the good doctor had been cut loose. Louis was not the type to play nursemaid for long. John, for his interactions and observations of the man, did not cast well to being the victim, at least, not for any great length of time. Given what he did know of the man, it was a rather resilient rebound. The sneer had faded to a somewhat impressed quirk as he thought on his latest fledgling. 

Lestat quickly checked the rest of the recent message logs and answered the question for himself, suddenly distracted as the two men grappled and Mycroft’s strangled gasp sounded out. Lestat could smell the sweat and blood on the mortal, an intoxicating and heady mixture that made a hungry role in the pit of his empty stomach. Lestat was old enough and had enough of the old blood from the dead Queen Akasha in him that he did not have the need to feed for long lengths of time.  Yet as he gazed at the sight of David atop the detective’s elder brother, his body rocking in sensual rhythm with his slow swallows as he drank, it brought almost a fledgling’s-thirst to his consciousness. The sound of the men's pleasure was intoxicating but coupled with the intensity of the unexpected passion between them, Lestat felt the flush on his face.

Moistening his lips and smirking he regained his focus and re-opened the conversation that had been left from the previous evening. Quick and silently the message was typed and sent. It needed to be vague, sounding urgent. He only needed to see how long before he was proven right.

The screen lit in his hand with the reply. **’30 minutes’** , was all it read.

The vampire smiled, switching to his own mobile he opened up a personal favorite application of his. The camera snapped the digital images with a stunning clarity. It was remarkable how out of context the photos could appear with the right angle. Knowing Mycroft was in no danger—at least, not anything serious—did grant Lestat a swell of pride at his own deviousness, which could only be expressed with a Cheshire grin. He could feel it. It almost hurt his cheeks a little.

 It was a carnal desire that had melded the lovers, yet the images he sent would look as if something far more sinister was afoot. This would ensure the urgency required for the pieces to come together just right. 

Following the three images was another simple message. The address followed by, **'Best hurry’**.

After hundreds of years, time could still be a fickle thing when it came to its passage, too fast when one wished they could pause ir it would drag along painfully slow with all the burn of salt in a wound. Entertainment helped greatly with the latter problem. 

Mycroft had far more stamina than Lestat had initially given the mortal man credit for.  The moments of passion stretched on and on.  Lestat enjoyed them more and more as the time needed had come to pass and with a last shuddering cry, Mycroft arched his back and climaxed, just as Sherlock burst into the room with a shout that became a dry swallow. Flushing in indignation he made a guttural noise of disgust, as he assessed what he was truly seeing before recoiling.

“My _God_ Mycroft!” Sherlock had turned away, scrubbing furiously at his eyes with closed fists.

The two men who had been caught in the act extracted themselves from one another in a scramble. David had removed himself from atop Mycroft who instantly moved to shield his utter impropriety while David simply stood. Lestat knew for sure he was about to be discovered, so he finally let loose all that he had managed to stifle thus far, in a peel of laughter that shocked all present and had the mortals twinging in pain. Gloriously naked, a golden sheen to his honey skin and molten shards of amber in the burnt-coffee eyes, David skewered his maker with a furious glare. 

Red-faced and mortified the older Holmes brother was soon hidden behind the shelter of his desk. Seated in the office chair with whatever clothing he could snatch from the floor, death-gripped on his lap. A deep scowl etched into the ruddy complexion.

Lestat was howling. He had stumbled back, slumping against the frame of the bookcase, arms wrapped tightly around his midsection as laughed. Regaining his breath, he flashed a dazzling grin at the furious consulting detective, shaking his head in time with his own chuckling. Sherlock was pinning the vampire with a gaze that was assessing the probability of breaking bones given unknown variables, refusing to look back towards his older brother and chance seeing more than _any_ cognisant sibling would ever want to see. 

“What the bloody hell…?” John’s voice brought a sudden halt to the clamor but only long enough for Lestat to spot the look on his dumbfounded fledgling and erupt back into another howling cackle.

Sherlock’s eyes shot to John, whose gaze was bouncing like a pinball between the naked body of David, what appeared to be the naked form of Mycroft sitting at his desk, Sherlock alive and looking as if he was about to be sick, and the bastard Lestat. The room was rank with the smell of sex and blood, making John’s nostrils flare with urges he had trouble supressing and his head swim. Lestat's horrible screeching laughter, piercing his ears and flaming red sparks of pain behind his eyes.

John visibly winced, fingers curling into fists at his sides, as his eyes landed on the culprit.  Then, as quickly as he had entered, he turned on his heel and marched back out.  David watched in interest as the younger Holmes, called his name and made to go after him.  Sherlock managed to catch an elbow before he was pushed back, falling onto his backside, as John disappeared in a blur of motion. 

This finally quieted Lestat’s cackling.  The blond walked over to where the detective still sat on the floor, wiping away the blood tears that stained his cheeks.  He reached down a hand and grabbed the detective by the scruff of his coat and shirt, hauling him with ease to his feet, like a parent might do with a small child.  Then suddenly without warning there was a thunderous crack that shook the building and the blond stumbled back a few steps. 

David was unsure what had happened and was even more shocked that it had happened at all.  The blow had knocked Lestat back but it was not enough to topple the powerful vampire.  This was still an incredible feat for a fresh fledgling.  John Watson stood between the detective and his maker.  His features were hardened with roiling rage, as he pointed a finger at the other, and snarled, “I’m not running away.  We are going to deal with this.  Now!”

“Ooo, sounds like fun.” Lestat saucily returned, closing the gap between them.  Although the blow had been thunderous it still had not been enough to even mar his blond maker’s perfectly white skin. Lestat raised a hand and ran a slim finger from his fledgling’s cheek down to his chin, as he added insult to injury, “You’re certainly more beautiful than I had expected.  The dark gift can work wonders, can’t it?  I see now why Sherlock wants you. I am even intrigued myself.  By all means, John, let us deal.”

David stepped up, pushing the two vampires apart.  John willingly moved a step back, whereas Lestat only moved forward in rebuke of his other fledgling’s action.  Still naked David stepped right between them and looked directly at his maker, demanding in a calm cool voice, “Take this else where.”

Lestat leant back, folding his arms defiantly across his chest, before he turned to address the intruder.  In a sarcastic mock, he sneered, “Afraid we are going to break something, David?”

John interrupted the other vampire, before he could respond to the rebuff.  “Look, shut up, Lestat, and just listen to me.” He demanded, teeth bared and voice snarling.  The dark blue of his eyes was wild with pent up rage finally boiling to the surface, ready to blow. David seemed to sense the mounting tension and his ill-effect to stop it, taking a small step back.  It was enough to still be ready, but it allowed the shorter vampire to challenge his maker. 

“I wanna’ know just exactly who the bloody hell you think you are and what gives you the right to waltz in fucking-larger-than-life, and ruin so many others.” John growled through grit teeth.

Icy blue eyes rolled and Lestat all but yawned, before he volleyed back, with a flippant gesture and a disgusted scoff, “Oh, please!  Don’t play the victim, John, it doesn’t suit you.”  He leaned forward again, a hand raised to his chest, as he casually explained, “You know who I am by now, I’m sure Louis left nothing out, and I have been given the right by the natural law.  You should be thanking me.”  Then the hand left his chest and gestured at his newest fledgling, with a wicked grin stretching his lips, “I just turned you from a little fish, into a bigger fish.”

“ _Thanking_   you?” the young vampire blustered, somehow finding the strength and the reserve somehow to restrain his anger.  Instead of swinging a fist or opting for a tussle, he smiled.  It was not a pleasant smile.  It was one that was stretched, tight lipped, clearly holding back.  “Help me to understand just why I should _thank you_ for gifting me the burden of _killing_ to survive.”

His maker rolled his eyes again, such an ignorant response to the proposed question.  “Look, you were never the original intention anyways.” Lestat said, very simply.  He turned slightly away from John and raised his hands complacently, shrugging.  “But it became very quickly apparent to me that you and Sherlock area packaged deal.  Even Mycroft and David understand that, it’s surprising that you’re the only that still doesn’t.”

“Well, then why isn’t Sherlock a vampire, if he was your fucking _intention_ all along?” John spat, pointing at the so far very quiet and very still figure of the consulting detective the fledgling had just stepped in to protect from his maker.  The younger Holmes remained still, watching and observing, calculating, just as the elder one was from behind his desk.

“Oh, it was a travesty, let me assure you.” Lestat moaned, raising a dramatic hand to his brow.  David ground his own teeth together watching the vampire rile his newest creation, until the blond revealed in a lively explanation, “I was rudely interrupted in the midst of my most crowning achievements—taking this humble world-famous consulting detective and turning him into the word’s most famous consulting detective vampire.”

“Interrupted?” It was the first time Mycroft’s voice had entered into the whole exchange. John shot a look at him, remembering the man was in the room, as he continued his question to the blond, “By whom?”

Lestat took a deep breath and his shoulders slumped a little as he stepped away from the confrontation with John and flopped into the wing-backed reading chair nearby. He looked human in the movement, the swagger gone, the arrogance squashed, instead he appeared weary and almost concerned as he stared distantly at the carpet. He lent his chin in the cup of one hand with a long finger running up his cheek and tapped his temple, tousling the golden curls.

“It has happened a time or two but the details are unimportant. Let us just say that I was forced to retreat with the good detective while this individual made it abundantly clear that not only was he capable of intervening again but that I must keep his ‘little toy’ in pristine condition.” He did his best impersonation of the tone the man had used when describing Sherlock as his ‘little-toy’, pausing for a moment before he fluttered long lashes with a roll of his eye and finished, “Essentially, I have been forbid to bestow the dark gift to Sherlock or kill him…otherwise… well, I’m going to get a spanking.”

“Sherlock, did you know who? Did he give you a name?” Mycroft questioned his brother and was answered with a furrowed brow that prompted his follow-up question aimed back at Lestat.

“No, poor thing was feeling a little—drained by that point.” Lestat grinned at himself. “He didn’t offer an introduction, rather rudely he just showed up. He didn’t look like much. I’ve handled far worse than he appeared but the black eyes were a little over dramatic.”

“Do me the pleasure of describing him.” Mycroft prompted through tight lips.

Lestat finally turned his focus away from the threads in the Persian rug and turned a dangerous smile at the older Holmes brother, “Perhaps I should just show you?”

Mycroft’s repulsion was clear to all those in the room yet his tone was as A-typical of his strict politeness, “I think not. I’m a little shy, you see. Perhaps you should show David instead.”

The golden skinned vampire’s gaze turned to Lestat casually, with no apprehension. He had no problem acquiring this knowledge from Lestat through the blood link.

“Show me.” Sherlock drew attention back to himself, standing tall and defiantly.

John glanced between his ex-flatmate and the vampire Lestat then shook his head stepping partially between the distance that separated the two as he interjected. “Whoa-whoa, I don’t think that’s such a great idea…”

“I concur.” Mycroft added his agreement flatly.

Sherlock glanced at John, meeting his eyes only briefly and there was a sudden little spike of fear that was not his own in John’s gut. Then it was gone and Sherlocks focus was on the blond who was eyeing him with a curious look. Not breaking his gaze with the fractured ice blue eyes, too clear, too bright to be human, the detective stated matter-of-factly, “This is the simplest course of action. I was there, I remember hearing the thing’s voice. I can make a positive identification.”

John huffed, “Don’t be ridiculous Sherlock! This isn’t a game.”

“Step aside, John.” Lestat requested sweetly.

Sherlock didn’t meet John’s eyes. Instead he staring fixedly, determined and solely focused on Lestat, as he added, “Please, John.”

John was utterly dumbfounded, casting a incredulous look at both Sherlock and Lestat as he clenched his hands tightly at his sides, resisting the urge to shake the hell out of the man. “You’re going to _let_ this psycho bite you?”

The detective’s chin raised slightly, his cold eyes almost the mirror of those of the vampire at his side, as he snipped succinctly, “I have already agreed.”   There was a short pause, before he added, “with intentions of joining you.  If what he can show me will reveal who is interfering with that, then we all stand to benefit.”

There was a saturnine growl from behind the wooden desk, as Mycroft Holmes made his intentions known, “You are not allowed to become a vampire.”  It was a short but poignant sentiment, voiced in a tone much lower and darker than most were used to hearing from the man.

John’s mouth pulled into that thin white line that curled at the corners ever so slightly—almost a smile, but most certainly not warm—as he planted his hands on his hips under the leather jacket he wore and leveled his former flatmate with an intense gaze that was all his own.  “For once, as hard as it may be to believe,” he announced, “I agree with Mycroft.”

The petulant child finally won out in the reserved detective and he gave a comical sneer that twisted his entire face, as he spat down at John, “Oh, you would!”  He flipped a dismissive hand, spinning slightly towards the blond vampire on his other side, as he cried, “Regardless of what _any_ of you think, it is my choice, and I have already made it!”

David could see the small hint of surprise that registered briefly on the elder Holmes face.  This was what the two of them had been reunited to avoid and although the vampire had always seen it as a lost cause, his counterpart had fought vehemently against even the thought of losing his younger brother to the dark gift, for that was what Mycroft truly saw it as—losing Sherlock.  Plus, there was the agreed upon outlook that the younger Holmes would make a terribly dangerous immortal, given his unequivocal intelligence and his past experiences with boredom. 

It was true that Sherlock Holmes had found various means of dealing with the problem in his mortal life. John had been a perfunctory means of this achievement, but as an immortal that would be a completely different scenario.  Lestat himself has had his own traumas and tribulations with a similar need, so they need not theorize how things could turn out for the detective should he become successful in acquiring the dark gift.  For the moment, Mycroft was seemingly pleased with the idea that there was a hindrance that would keep his only brother from it, even though David knew they both had already considered the fact that this interruption could become more costly than the effects of the dark gift.

David had slowly gathered his clothes from the floor while much of the argument had transpired, listening both audibly and mentally to the thoughts in the room that were open to him.  John was too new to guard very well what was projected from his mind and he just so happened to be the only individual David was capable of read.  Both the Holmes brothers shared the ability to block others from entering and Lestat was his maker, their minds forever closed by the dark gifts transference.  He was at least back in his jeans, listening to the subdued alarms ringing in the doctor’s mind, as he watched Lestat step closer to the detective.

His maker, the ever suave and sexual creature, swayed his hips towards the detective, those cold and ruthless icy eyes piercing through the doctor with challenge, as an arm slipped under the consulting detectives long wool coat to grip the waist on the other side.  Sherlock did not seem keen on the embrace either but did little to shrug out of the iron tight grip, managing only to cast his glance over at the blond head snuggling in a little too close for comfort.  David could see that the detective did truly want to take what Lestat was offering, by bowing to the other man’s eccentrics.  He was strong willed indeed.  Mycroft would have trouble shaking this new fascination. 

Lestat wasn’t finished performing and to grind salt in the wound, he peered across at John, as he explained, “My gift to Sherlock is you, John, and my gift to you will be Sherlock.”

John’s eyes darkened at that and there was an audible grinding of molars, when Sherlock raised an arm.  In a sharp tone the detective demanded, “Stop.”  He reached a hand up, making short work of the few buttons at the top of his collar.  He pushed back the deep plum fabric, revealing the pale flesh beneath, pinked with the flowing blood just under the surface, as he added brusquely, “Just get it over with.”

David knew Lestat did not need another invitation and John seemed to begrudgingly accept this.  Lestat made one last smirk at the doctor, as he came around to the front of the taller mortal, taking the long neck in his hand.  Mycroft was tense behind the desk, ever the stoic gentleman, the ice man, but David could hear the quickened pace of his heart in his chest, thrumming with the rush of adrenaline that lit his mind, body, and senses.  He too would keep quiet and let this transaction pass.

The sound of those teeth piercing flesh seemed too loud in the hush of the room.  It was a clean bite, only mild discomfort apparent on the detective’s face, as his eyes fluttered closed and he allowed the vampire to deepen his embrace.  David could smell the blood in the room, a fresh new scent that mingled with the dissipating aroma of their own previous love making.  John looked away, more uncomfortable than his friend, his eyes brooding, his mouth hard, and his fists white knuckled at his sides.  His mind was moving too fast now for David to clearly read everything but he got the clear sense that the new vampire was struggling to stay calm and hold it all together. 

Sherlock became lost in the exchange.  The connection allowed things to flow both ways between them, thoughts and memories of Lestat’s beginning to slowly mingle with his own, as though they were now weaved in and of one another.  He had been here before but somehow this was different.  This was of purpose and Lestat did as he had promised, allowing the memory of that fateful event in the penthouse to rise to the surface above all the others, like oil on top of water. 

The view of the memory was muddy in texture and softened by the transfer, like a lens blur on a movie screen.  The memory moved in his mind’s eye as though it were his own and he could see himself on the floor of the penthouse, slumped against the floor and close to unconsciousness, a bloodied wreck of himself.  Then the vision shifted, the gaze of the vampire Lestat moving to find the culprit, as feelings of rage and incredulity swamped his senses. 

There the thing was.  The dark eyed fiend that had stopped Lestat from making his ultimate achievement, from turning the willing detective.  He was shorter than the blond, thin in stature, wearing a well tailored navy suit made up of crisp lines.  His face wore a lopsided smirk, sneering, mocking, and challenging all at the same time. 

Then Sherlock seen it, those black wide eyes…

David watched in curious observation as his maker drank from the mortal.  He could see the pleasure coursing through the other vampire, could smell the satisfaction of the blood on his maker’s palate.  It made his own mouth salivate with desire.

John too was curious.  He watched as his mind screamed, his senses crawled with agitation, and his hands fidgeted at his sides.  It was all he could do to restrain himself, to hold back from taking the detective back.  There was a palpable greedy possession exuding from the man that was hard to ignore. 

Sherlock’s lips whispered a name, as Lestat let him go.  It was barely audible.  “Moriarty.”

“Did someone call my name?” came an odd lilting voice from the open french doors to the study. 

All eyes whipped to see a thin man striding towards them.  His shoes made no sound on the marble tiles as he casually approached, hands in the pockets of his neatly pressed trousers, his teeth gnawing a wad a bubble-gum.

“Impossible.” Whispered Mycroft, as the younger Holmes, snapped, “You’re dead,” with a skeptical cock of his head.

Lestat finalized the Holmes’ sentiment of surprise, fists clenched at his sides, eyes like daggers, as he threateningly hissed, “He’s about to be…”

The man’s large eyes, so dark that the brown was swallowed by the blackness of his pupil, widened in interest.  His mouth worked on the gum and he blew out a large pink bubble.  It snapped loudly as everyone watched, before the man address the vampire in return.  “Big words,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “for a vampire that got his arse handed to him only a couple of weeks ago.”  He raised a hand, shaking a disapproving finger back and forth at the blond, as he rebuffed him like a misbehaving child, “I told you once, Lestat, if you can’t play nice with my toy that I’d have to punish you.  I think you’ve earned a time out.”

David wondered what that could possibly mean.  In truth, he had not quite believed that the conversation Lestat had relayed just prior was all that accurate—his maker had a well known penchant for exaggerating—but now this was obviously the same antagonist and he used the same odd analogy-ridden speech.  It was cloaked, like speaking in code, never truly saying what one means.  This left one to imagine the true intent, to find it challenging, intimidating, or offensive.  It was not hard to discern how Lestat would take it.

The blond folded his arm defiantly with half hooded eyes and a crooked grin, baring his fangs, he rebuked, “And what exactly are you planning on doing?  Sitting me in the corner?”

The stranger shrugged and replied, snippily, “How unimaginative.  Where’s the fun in that?”  He smiled widely, adding, “I have a more elaborate plan for you.  Trust me, it will be far more entertaining.”  His head lolled slightly to his left shoulder, as both hands returned to the pockets of his trousers and he rocked back onto the balls of his heels.  “If you think you get bored—whew!” he blew out a dramatic breath, grumbling all the way through it, as he rolled his pitch black eyes and laughed, “Ha, you have no idea.”

David could see Mycroft move to his right and glanced askance at the elder mortal.  He leaned forward, knitting his fingers together, as though he were negotiating a diplomatic meeting—in many ways it was just as tenuous—and raised his head high.  In his most notably public school voice, he intoned politely, “What exactly is it that you want with my brother?  Perhaps we could come to an accord—,”

“I’m not your bargaining chip!” the detective quipped, angrily.

“Yeah!” Lestat threw in, gesturing a dismissive hand at the mortal behind his desk, “Sherlock is mine!”

“Sherlock isn’t anyone’s pawn!” John snarled.  David did not miss that the doctor took a side step closer to the detective, moving his body to shield the man from the new threat.  Sherlock also noticed.

“Oh, John!” the stranger beamed at the doctor, snapping another bubble of the gum.  “I didn’t even realize that was you.”  After having gotten a generous look at the now very defiant doctor, Moriarty wrinkled his nose and added, “You’re looking awful pale.  I think you need to get a little more sun.  Anyway,” the word was sang, as he turned back to Lestat.  “enough small talk.  I’m afraid I have to leave you now.  I think I left the stove on.”  With a loud snap of his fingers the man disappeared in a blip of light, along with the vampire Lestat.

David wasn’t sure what had happened or how to explain any of it.  This was not unheard of, in his realm of education and experience with the Talmasca, but it certainly was not going to be easy.  They were most obviously dealing with a very powerful supernatural entity. 

John was the first to say the obvious, “I thought that you said he was—,”

He cut short of finishing the sentence and then David could smell the gas too.  They each grabbed a Holmes and with their immortal speed and agility fled the immaculate flat through the closest window.  John was right on David’s heels and they barely made it to safety before the air was rent by a massive explosion.  The shock wave of it knocked the two immortals back a pace and when they looked back, there was nothing left of the beautiful home but a cloud of black smoke and red hot debris.

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock stepped out of Mycroft’s sleek black car and closed the door with a slam.  Mycroft had the detective and doctor chauffeured back to Baker Street, their parting words simply a resigned promise to wait for further instruction.  Sherlock deplored waiting, especially for Mycroft’s instructions.  Yet he was pleasantly pleased, despite everything that had happened that evening, to have John join him—and of the man’s own volition. 

The detective did not have to ask why.  It was written plainly on the vampire’s face—this new face that was somehow still comfortingly familiar.  John’s motives had always been altruistic.  He was concerned for the detective’s own well-being, certainly now given Moriarty’s reintroduction and villainous demonstration of his recently acquired avant-garde supernatural capabilities—always the showman in both thought and talent.  It did not bother Sherlock that John was clearly here out of duty.  He would take whatever the other man was willing to give him.

In the darkened street on the step outside the silent flat, the detective turned casually to his comrade.  Normally he would have pushed on through the doorway, leading the way and leaving the smaller man behind with only a brusque command that would effectively enough allow John to know that he was wanted and needed—using the work always as the convenient excuse easily at hand.  The mortal paused though now, so close to the man he had once cherished and loved and wounded so terribly, so close to this vampire, and could not bring himself to just pretend nothing had happened.  To ignore all that life had wrought on the both of them these past two and half years and go on like they were still dangerous flatmates walking thin lines with both eachother and the criminals and the law.  Instead, he quietly—almost politely—asked, “Come up?”

John’s lips were pursed into a thin line and despite his new form, with its smooth white alabaster skin, there was a crease between his furrowed brows.  He gave a cursory nod and Sherlock took it, leading the way into the Baker Street flat. 

For once, the detective was considerate of his landlady, sleeping in her own flat.  That was all they would need.  They made their way up the stairs with a respectful modesty and Sherlock could not help but detect that John was physically and mentally repressing his natural vampirical speed, forcing his new body to slow down and take things at a more moderate pace than was given to his kind.  Like a gentleman, he walked through the open door and gave a welcoming gesture of his arm, before John reluctantly stepped through the threshold.

Once he closed the door, he could take it no longer.  Sherlock pounced on John.  To his own surprise he found himself enveloping the other man with his arms and that John had already turned to face him, either by his gift of speed or because he had expected it.  Although Sherlock tried to squeeze the man hard, John felt like rock beneath his grip—like a cold lifeless corpse set deep with rigor—his chest did not even lift and fall with a breath.  It was disquieting, unnerving, and Sherlock hated the thoughts rushing through his brain as his mind analyzed the body in his arms, the man within his embrace—no longer human—but…other.  So perturbed by the instantaneous calculations flashing behind his closed eye lids, the detective tried to shut the analysis down, shut it odd, shut it out.  It was a wasted effort.  He could no more shut it off than he could stop holding John, just then and there.

After a short time, John did return the embrace, wrapping his arms under the wool back of his long jacket to grip the other man tightly.  To Sherlock’s dismay, he felt his eyes prick, welling with tears, as he babbled almost incoherently, “I-I thought I may…have lost you.”

John seemed to stiffen more, if that were even possible, before breaking the embrace.  He gave Sherlock a lop-sided half-grin, before flicking his eyebrows at him and commenting, “Now you’re scaring me, Sherlock.”

The detective watched the vampire walk away from him, that same measured pace, so painstakingly attempting to appear more human—to appear less alien.  The vampire came over to the window behind the leather chair and stood beside the desk, his bright eyes glancing over the room and its properties before settling on the droplets of rain that slowly began to spatter the dark glass. 

It was odd.  Here was John, the body he knew was John, and still seemed so new, so different.  The detective rationalized that in many ways John Watson was indeed still the same and yet very altered—an evolution of what he formerly had been.  The body was the most shocking change.  His skin had always had a ruddy complexion to it, even after the dry tan from the dessert air and sun had worn off, and his face had always bore the etched lines of age and military service with pride, as expressive of his character and moods as was his speech.  Now it was hard and white as bone, pore-less and unbelievably smooth.  His eyes were similar but now shone bright like a cats, like any nocturnal predators.  Even his hair was new, a lighter shade of burnt blond, glinting glossy under the slight illumination from the streetlamps outside.  He looked more like a very young gussied up male model than the adventure seeking reliable doctor that Sherlock had known. 

The other man’s body seemed to tense at that and Sherlock watched him slowly turn back, just a degree.  There was a flicker of his eyes but the detective was unsure if he had moved or not.  Once more his eyes were trained on the wet glass.    His hand was instantly up—the detective had blinked and missed the movement—and his fingers massaged at his temple, discomfort slightly apparent on the hard features. 

Sherlock knew that he was staring, knew that John knew it too, and gave the man a reprieve from his intense scrutiny.  He crossed the room and shed his coat, throwing it over the low back of his chair, as he flopped into the seat.  John responded in kind, coming away from the window, and as if on cue, he took his seat in his familiar spot, his eyes not wanting to make contact.  It was plain now, the way the doctor was coping with whatever it was that ailed him.  He could see the tight line of his mouth, the clenched jaw, and the slight fidget to his fingertips. 

“Why have you come back, John?” the detective asked, in that low deep rumble that he sometimes used to arouse the truth from wary individuals.  There were things that needed to be said, things that needed to be bypassed.  With his straight face, his game face, Sherlock continued, “I am not so blind as to think that it was purely out of concern for my well being.”  Of course, it wasn’t.  Again he would take what he could get.  “Then it must be for Mary.  You do know that she is dead, do you not?”

It was callous and the other man’s mouth twitched with the consequential agitation that Sherlock had expected.  Then he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, his hand effectively shielding those terribly bright eyes.  “I am aware of that fact, thanks.” He responded curtly.  Then he dropped the hand and leveled the detective with a stubborn determined gaze, that was made all the more effective by the illuminative quality of those eyes.  “But, I owe it to her to find out why.”

“You don’t owe dead people anything.” Sherlock shot back.  It was not spiteful, just a statement of facts.

“I’m not stupid, Sherlock.  I’ve already heard this piece.” John informed him, sounding slightly more agitated, before he lifted his chin and quietly amended, “I owe it to myself.”

The detective tipped his head to his right and shrugged.  “Fair enough.  How is it?”

John gave an exaggerated blink.  “How is what?”

“Being a blood drinking immortal being with supernatural strength and agility?” the detective clarified, in his swift clear speech.

John’s gaze changed then.  The hardness of his features softened and after a long moment, a deep disbelieving chuckle rumbled out of him, as a wide generous smile spread across his face.  Sherlock found himself joining in, as the vampire shook his head and jokingly responded, “Bloody inconvenient!” through more laughter. 

It only lasted a moment or two, twenty-two seconds at the most, this brief interlude from the drama of the past few months allowing the two men to feel slightly normal again.  It felt good to laugh.  It was warm and familiar.  Sherlock cherished it, for it was over all too quickly.  John rose from his chair and paced back towards the door.  His hand was rubbing his other temple and it seemed that his discomfort had raised a notch. 

The vampire stopped after a pace or two and turned back, making eye contact only for a brief moment, as quickly he explained, “Look, I can’t stay here.  It’s not safe.”

“Then where are we going?” the detective asked, relieved to see the confirmation in the eyes that glanced back to him.

John licked his lips, those fangs raking back over his bottom lip, sharp enough that they pierced the skin.  There was a streak of red for only a moment, most would have missed it.  With a sigh, the vampire continued, “I have been granted access to a…a place that’s safe for—for me.”  He struggled to talk about himself as what he was now, as this creature he had become, and again the hand was rubbing at his temple.  Whatever it was that was causing this discomfort it certainly was escalating and quickly.  Finally, the vampire stopped his pacing and instructed, “I need to go and take care of something.  I will be back in one hour.  Have what you need ready to go and I will take you with me.”

“No need.  I’m ready now.” Sherlock quipped, standing from his chair.  “I will come with y—,”

“No.”  It was loud and it was as final, as anything the detective had ever heard the man utter.  The room felt a degree cooler, as John turned his back on him and walked out of the flat. 

***

Eyes clenched, the painful throb in his head ebbed as he quickly moved farther and farther away from the Baker Street flat. John let out a hiss of breath from between his clenched teeth and was thankful for the relative emptiness of the street when he finally stopped at the still bustling, intersection. 

"Shit." He cursed quietly, hands rubbing absently on his jeans to warm them. "Bugger."

His feet carried him across the intersection when the light turned and he kept on walking. He needed to hunt—had to get the smell of Sherlock off of his palate and control the thirst that was twisting his guts. Then maybe he would be able to figure out how the hell to deal with the cacophony of Sherlock’s thoughts that had been battering through his head.

It had started out as soft gentle whispers—the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, only a word or two discernable as they passed.  The sounds had turned into sentences, full thoughts, growing in volume the longer he stayed near.  By the time John left the flat it was all he could do to hold it together. The last thing he needed Sherlock to know right now was that John could hear absolutely everything the damned genius was thinking—everything!  Every little minute thought, detail, analysis, and desire! Despite how useful that it all seemed in theory, the ever seeking, endless experimenting, dangerous if bored, mind and thoughts were like riding a missile. Not the sort of straight to the target missile, but like some crazy sort of cartoon bomb that spiraled dangerously out of control. Even thinking about it now caused John to shake his head as he tried to switch gears. 

The vampire stopped at another crossing and this time he was joined by a grubby elderly woman, who was clearly on the piss, as well as a couple of young fops out on the town. 

"Ohm, Trev, what about ‘im?" John heard the one boy whisper, clear as if he'd said it out loud as he tried to avoid looking at the two young men eyeing him up like a piece of meat. 

"Ohhhhhhh,” sighed the other in return, “his knickers cream for sure." 

There were a few other thoughts that the immortal received shortly after within the same realm of sentiment, leaning ever more towards the erotic as both of the tossers eyed his short stature and thin build.  These were received only in parts, crowded by the jumble of other thoughts that he was receiving from within the vicinity as well as the noises of the busy intersection and buildings around them.  His senses seemed to be on high alert, absorbing anything and everything, taking it all in with no filter, bombarding him from all directions.  Overwhelming was an understatement. 

The soldier in him stood firm and resolute, sternly reminding John that this came with the part.  He had better grow a back bone and get used to it or it could over throw his equilibrium.  Louis had admitted as much, had known others who could not handle it and ended themselves because of it.  John did his best to ignore the two young ruffians and began to mentally roadblock the bombarding sounds and smells that flooded in from all around him, as he made his way on his unknown course through the London streets. 

The vampire traversed another couple of blocks, doing his best to keep a moderate pace but also not to draw attention to himself.  Finally, it was all too much.  He ducked into a small slit of an alley between the two brick buildings to take a breather and recollect himself. 

The space was cramped, barely two abreast across, with straight brick on either side and a dark ending that wreaked of garbage and mildew and other unsavory body fluids this new life had left John without.  Despite it all, he came down onto his haunches, pressing the pads of his fingers to his temples, clenching his teeth.  He could feel his fangs rubbing against the inside of his lips, a grating reminder of his pressing need to feed.  He regretted having not had the chance before Lestat had herded them into that damned study for his own cruel amusement. 

Now the bastard was gone.  Who the hell knew where.  He didn’t really care.  Fuck him and all the bullshit that followed him.  He and Moriarty—if that really was who that thing was had been that had appeared amongst them like a bloody ghost-Hoodini—those two psychopaths deserved one another!

John had not planned on meeting with Sherlock—certainly not like that—and now he had no choice but to remain close to the man, which already had proven quite torturous.  That thing was obviously otherworldly—that was still a notion he was not quite used to using—and the _thing_ had obvious designs on the detective that John was quite sure would not bode well for the man.  The last thing John was going to allow was for Moriarty to have his victory—not now!  _Not after everything!_

People passed him without notice on the sidewalk. The trip-trapping of their shoes and boots was constant, their thoughts unwavering and galling.  John tried to close them out.  He tried to shut the mental trap door in his mind that allowed them in.  Once he was centred he could hunt.  Once he had fed he could return to Sherlock.  Then he could sort out this whole problem.  One thing at a time. 

 Two bodies stepped into the alley.  Hungry eyes landed on him.  John need not look up at them to realize they were the two from earlier.  Had they been waiting outside the alley?  With his mind finally closed to the noise, he must had missed them.  Their intent now was blatant.  Not good.

“Oy, ‘ere we are sweetie. Lucky day, ours, for a nice piece like you to invite us down your back ally.” The taller one crooned, taking a menacing step closer.

John shot to his feet, just as the other one made to grab at his arm.  Training kicked in and he snatched the groping arm, reefing the man forward past him, into the blackness of the alley.  There was a pop and then a sharp gasp—the joint gave and the man gave a short agonized squeal.  He heard the click of a switch blade and the other lunged for him.  John grabbed both the man’s biceps, his grip crunching sinewy muscles between his fingers, pushing them apart, as suddenly the man’s throat was exposed.  He could hear the thrum of the heart, could see the push of the blood up through the artery, and then the taste of the man’s blood was on his tongue and rushing into his mouth.  The only sound came from the other fop on the ground further back in the darkness of the alley, swearing and whining about to the pain in his shoulder—probably unaware that John was not strangling his mate but rather bleeding him dry.  The vampire drank until the heart was sputtered and finally fell silent.  The limp body fell aside, as he grabbed for the younger one.   

When he was finished the immortal sat back, reveling in the euphoria that passed over and through him, equally as rapturous as a mortal orgasm. Finally satiated, he observed the dead boys at his feet with a cool detachment was most certainly inhuman.  He had not bothered to check if they were deviant, if they deserved what he had given them, and for a blessed moment he did not care.  He had acted on instinct—a part of him that was trained and a part of him that was new and different.  He was slightly unsure how he would feel tomorrow about their deaths but for now, he had the dirty business of disposing of the bodies. 

John did as he had learned and closed the bite wound with a little of his own blood.  He dumped the bodies in the back of the alley and left them for the rats.  Then he jumped and kicked himself upwards, propelling back and forth up the brick wall to the roof top in a flash of movement that no human eye could have seen.  The air up here was a little clearer and certainly smelled less of rot and piss.  He quickly checked his clothing and wiped his face.  There was a smudge of crimson on the collar of his button down shirt. 

“Bollucks,” He swore, before dropping back down into the alley.  One of the two men was about his size.  He pulled the black cotton wife beater off the boy and then slumped him back against the debris, topless.  Rummaging through the pockets on their jeans he found a lighter and he torched his own shirt, leaving it to smolder in a metal coffee can amongst the other garbage.  He slipped off his own leather jacket and pulled the wife beater on.  To his surprise, it fit nicely over his torso.  He then pulled his jacket back on and when his old shirt had burnt away he dashed back up the walls to the rooftop.  He would take this way back to Baker Street.


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

 

Sherlock had showered, changed, and had packed a small travel back which was now resting next to the door.  He had been sawing away aggressively at double notes until Mrs. Hudson had squashed that by threatening to break the instrument and toss both he and it out the window. Impatient, he had sunk into his plush chair, the instrument propped on his lap like a miniature cello as he plucked at strings randomly, annoyance crinkling his brow as he stared blankly at the floor and tried to ponder exactly what was supposed to happen now. Waiting for John, the Vampire, to return so that they could go to some Vampire safe house where hopefully the recently revived and unfathomably powerful 'Demon Moriarty' or psychotic vampire Lestat would not be able to find them, sounded too much like some deranged fiction school girls or bored housewives would invent. Yet the illumination of all other variables left only the truth of his situation, regardless of how unbelievable it was.

His contemplation's had been all over the board. How exactly did vampirism work? What the hell had Moriarty become and how? Where did he take Lestat? Why? Did he really walk in on his brother having gay vampire sex?! Could he and John have...?

"Sherlock!" His name being yelled shook the consulting detective out of his foray, as he looked up with a swallow at John who was standing in the flat, arms crossed over his chest, looking annoyed.

"That's not your shirt." Sherlock stated suddenly, scrunching his face. _Why would John be wearing someone else's shirt?_

"None of your damned business.” Came the swift retort, “Are you ready? We need to go."

"Lead the way, John." Sherlock let the question slide, he would add that to his list for later reconsideration. Now he levied himself out of the chair and with his usual dramatic flourish, put on his coat and scarf, snatching up his leather bag before following John down the stairs and out of the flat.

The vampire hailed a taxi.  Sherlock eyed him suspiciously.  "Taxi, John?" Sherlock asked with skepticism. 

"Yes." John groused through grit teeth, as the car stopped.

"I don't know, I suppose I just expected something... you know, more, supernatural." Sherlock arched an elegant eyebrow and walked around to toss his bag in the trunk that had popped open as the car had stopped.

"Well, I beg your pardon, I will try to think of some parlor trick for you next time we're going into hiding." John smirked, partly annoyed and partly very relieved that this was the first time it had felt somewhat like there banter of old as the two slid into the small backseat.

"I'd appreciate it, John." Sherlock commented casually, seating himself and pinning his eyes on the passing scenery through the window.

A few minutes into the drive, he finally glanced askance at John. He was making a point of trying not to do that—to stare at John, but it was utterly mesmerizing, the way he looked now. Sherlock was making diligent attempts to slow his mind down and to try to find a way to put John at ease as he could see in the mans body language that being around him made the new vampire incredibly uncomfortable.

"Heh. Yeah." Was the only thing John could think to say. The dull roar of Sherlock’s mind was like standing behind a waterfall with someone turning the volume slowly higher and then lower. No where near where it had been when he first left his friend. In fact it was a strange thing to know that Sherlock had consciously tried to slow his mind and focus on putting John at ease because he had picked up how uncomfortable John had been. It was weird but made sense in a strange way. When the two men had been together, despite their differences, they had a strange connected empathy for one another... well, more so John for Sherlock but the genius had learned to balance observation with a small but growing understanding of emotional intelligence.

After the taxi driver was paid, from an impressive wad of cash John had produced from his pocket—something else that Sherlock set aside for investigation at a later time—Sherlock stood on the stonework pathway for a minute, assessing the house before them.

The building itself was not spectacularly splendid and grandeur but rather plain.  The brick was well kept and the hedges were well tended, giving the older home curb appeal without drawing too much attention to itself.  Still it was easy enough for Sherlock to see that this property was no ordinary residence.  It was made to look that way, so as to remain inconspicuous among the other crowded homes in the area.  There was a large tree in the front yard, just beginning to bud with new life, the small start to the leaves visible in the glow of the street lamp.  

John walked past him, up the walk to the front door.  Sherlock grabbed his bag and hurried along after, catching sight of the last few digits the man punched into the keyless lock at the front door.  The door opened and john walked him into the small foyer to the rather ordinary interior beyond.  Whoever did own the place had an eye for rich woods.  The entire place seemed to gleam with polished walnut and mahogany tones.  It was well tended to.  Far better than his own 221B and he thought that it must be cleaned weekly by staff.  There seemed to be none present at the moment however, as they hung their coats by the door and John went about the ordinary task of showing him the layout of the smaller home, including the room he was to inhabit for the next little while.  

Sherlock entered to room, giving it a customary sweep with his calculating eyes before he dropped his bag on the floor and turned back to John.  "Where is your room?" he promptly asked, more than curious to hear the response.

John leveled him with a stern glare and merely sighed, rigid with mounting irritation.  The detective pushed a little further.  "Or do you not sleep now?" 

The vampire looked unsettled and Sherlock attempted to reign back his mental hypotheses to see if it lightened the mood any.  John sighed again, this time attempting to reply, but obviously guarding his words, "Sherlock, I really don't wanna get into it now."

Sherlock's face scrunched in curiosity as he waved his arms to indicate the empty space around them.  "Why not?  We're safe here, you said so yourself.  What is the harm in discussing it now?"

"Fine. I don't want to discuss it _at all_." John emphasized the last two words, before turning out of the room and walking away.  

"Well, we certainly will have to at some point.” Sherlock protested, following quickly after his retreating friend.  “I cannot see how putting it off will make the inevitable conversation any easier.”

"That’s what you don't get, Sherlock." John snapped, still stalking away.  Sherlock could see that his entire frame was tense from head to toe, as his friend plodded loudly down the steps from the upstairs bedrooms to the main floor.  "I don't want _you_ to know.  I don't want _you_ to figure it out.  You just need to leave it be." 

The consulting detective stood in the middle of the living room, drinking in the details of the furnishings and décor of the space. Mostly modern with accents of Victorian influences throughout the home. A few paintings, mostly old masters and a few that he did not recognize but the styles made him question if they were originals. If so, the value of the contents in this modest home could be worth billions. 

It made sense that immortals would have access to obscene amounts of wealth. If they lacked the business savvy that this 'Armand' had, then they could just as easily take what they wanted with their speed and strength. Lestat had moved so fast at times that he could not be tracked by the limitations of the human eyes ability to process movement. It would be child’s play to snatch money or items of value from the unsuspecting or to simply line one’s pockets with the wealth of the victims they choose to sustain them. 

Once they were in the living room, John motioned for Sherlock to stay—very much like a pet owner might order a dog—and then he disappeared.  His body vanished in the blue of movement that Sherlock was beginning to associate with the vampirical.  It was like watching a painter smudge paint across the canvas.  For once John had forgotten to slow his natural speed.  It was fascinating to note that all the vampires seemed to be wound tighter than the mortal bodies that they had come from, as if on a molecular level they defied the rules of time and space, adhering to an entirely new set devised just for them. Why else would Lestat have been so irked by the Moriarty had fought back?  It was as though the two of them were on the same level.  Perhaps Moriarty was even more powerful. 

Sherlock used the little time alone that John’s absence had left him with to not sit idle.  He assessed as much from his surroundings as he could, moving to the doorway to the room and glancing beyond, just as John reappeared.  His face was twisted into that tight grim expression that he used to keep himself from exploding with expletives and Sherlock could not help but press the man’s patience further, with a wide ‘you caught me’ grin.

It certainly didn’t win him any favors.  John’s face remained the same, but his eyes sparked with something else, more feral.

"So how exactly do you intend this to work?" came the smooth and somewhat patronizing question. It had not been intended to come across so pissy, but once out he could not retract it.

"Excuse me?" He had been trying to keep the muffler on Sherlock’s thoughts resounding in his head as he also attempted to formulate some loose idea of what the hell he was going to do. 

The dark mop of curls was tussled as Sherlock gave the room a sweeping review and then revealed his observations. "Well, it is clear from the security keypad on the door to the cellar that you will be secured in a space down stairs. As this is a 'Safe House' for vampires, it only makes sense it would be an underground bunker of some fashion. I can't' imagine you being partial to the idea of sleeping in a coffin so it must be some sort of secured bedroom."

John stood still a moment, then sucked in a quick breath.  He waved the man off, his arms making an ‘x’ shaped motion, before he pointed a finger at the detective and warned, "Just never mind what it is, it doesn't matter, you won't be seeing it any how." 

The vampire turned his gaze away and tried very hard to look as if he actually knew what he was about to do.  Sherlock watched with scrutiny, defensively returning with a jab. "Well, I hardly see why, John. Not as if it would be the first time I had been in your 'bedroom'.” He emphasized this point by making a very sarcastic air quotation movement with a couple flicks of his fingers, adding brusquely, “And besides these circumstances are far more curious this go around."

That stopped his former lover dead, the dark eyes locked on his, making Sherlock’s pulse quicken. There was a predatory and warning flame in those shifting crystalline depths that the genius couldn't help but be ever more drawn to, only increasing the allure of this dangerous creature John had become. 

"What. Exactly. Is. That…supposed to mean?" John’s ground out, his tone low and menacing. 

Sherlock had to pause to filter through his responses—there where many that were apt, few that were appropriate.  Finally, the words left his lips, far more pleading than he had intended.  "Tell me what it is really like, John."  He corrected himself, feeling he was coming off far to vulnerable and needy for his own liking.  He moistened his lips and quickly, amended, “I…I need more information, more data, to comprehend fully.”

The look on John’s face shifted, critical and confused, or perhaps just apprehensive.  Sherlock took advantage of the momentary quiet to quickly proceed with more specific inquiries, "The increased agility and strength are obvious, but how about your perceptions? Your senses? Hearing? Smell? Touch?"

Curiosity seemed like a safer route than where his thoughts had strayed. He was cognately aware now what the slow building ache in his chest was, as he had stared at the perfect pale lips. John had always been especially captivating to Sherlock when he was angry and now especially so. 

John rolled his eyes and turned away with an exasperated sigh.  Sherlock wondered what the vampire had gleaned from his mind, if anything, of the previous thought. "Ugh.” He grunted, raising his hands plaintively, “You know, I'm not really sure I'm ready to talk to you about this right now. It's almost dawn and frankly, I'm still not sure how I feel about all of this insanity.” He paused only briefly, giving Sherlock that wide fake smile that was more rage than delight.  He gestured back towards the stairs, as he commanded, “Take any of the rooms in the house, doesn't matter which, just don't go off on your own right now. It's not safe."

"You make a terrible keeper, not being able to get a sun tan." Sherlock chastised, as he turned his back on immortal and was making a point of looking out the large window that overlooked the landscaped side-garden.  “You may be immobilized by the sun, but it hinders me still not. So, I bid you adieu. I have to get back to work.”

"Sherlock!" John barked his name so loudly that it pierced the consulting detective’s ears and he reflexively cupped his hands over them. "No!" The next word was still loud but the sharpness was dulled, as Sherlock whirled to glare at his fuming companion, his ears ringing painfully. "You can't fight this fight on your own."

The vampire had smashed the side of his fist against the door frame in his rage, the wood was splintered around his still closed fist, which was unharmed and perfect. If John had been a mortal man, it would have only been a thud to accentuate a point. Now though, his unchecked unnatural strength made a little well of actual concern blossom in Sherlock’s gut, as the immortal licked his lips and continued. "There are vampires, Sherlock! Honest to God _vampires_! You were kidnapped by one and I got turned _fucking_ into one. Moriarty is some sort of…back-from-the-dead super-evil-ghost or something…and he obviously wants you for God knows what! I'm pretty sure, it’s probably—to put it mildly—Not. Good. "

 "John, I can—," Sherlock began but was abruptly cut off. 

"No! No, you can't Sherlock. You can't protect yourself. You couldn't protect me and you sure as hell don't stand a chance on your own against Lestat or Moriarty.” John was ranting at this point, more calm than he had been all night.  He was now simply stating the facts, as he saw them. “No offense, but you said you had taken care of the bastard spider and his web and that is clearly not the case." His tone left no room for misinterpretation or challenge. 

The detective was fighting contempt, never having enjoyed being told what he could or could not do, and so his reply was said with petulance, "What exactly would you have me do then while you are incapacitated?"

"Nothing." John said, snapping his fingers.  This chastening caused Sherlock’s indignant scowl to deepen. "Sleep. Think. Figure out how the hell Moriarty could still be alive, if he even still is alive, and find out what the bloody hell he could want with you this time."

Sherlock watched John’s shoulders begin to slump as he rubbed at his eyes.  It was simple to observe the effects of the approaching dawn settling over his friend before he replied, quietly, "I can't very well do that from here, John.” 

"Bullocks!" Was the instant reply, as John looked back at him sharply, accusingly. "You did 70% of your investigations from the flat! I was there, remember? There's a laptop with internet in the office, just..." There was a deep breath between the words. Speaking them seemed to almost be a struggle now. "Seriously, just this once I need you to actually listen to me…and stay put. Get some sleep. Tomorrow night we have a lot to figure out."

John staggered on his next few steps back through the door frame.  Sherlock had taken a step forward, anticipating a fall. The vampire caught himself and shot him a weak look, which made the detective feel like an ass for being so belligerent. 

"John, are you alright?" The brunet asked.  He really knew nothing beyond what he had read in the books he had leafed through that, until recently, had been purely fiction. 

"I'm fine, I just need to sleep. Stay here. Don't follow me or try to break into the safe room. I could literally kill you and have no idea until I wake up. I really don’t want to wake up to having murdered the one person still alive who is important to me." The words were becoming slurred by the end as he rallied the last of his strength to get into the safe room in the cellar below. 

Sherlock’s reply was quiet and almost sincere enough that he believed himself. "Alright, John." 

Turning away the blond felt another wave of dizziness roll over him as he made is way to the cellar door and quickly punched in the code that granted him access to the highly secured rooms below. He could hear that Sherlock had managed to resist the temptation to follow him and attempt to witness the key entry. With the wash of darkness that kept ebbing on him, he gave up on caring about much else as he ensured the door had shut and locked behind him before he stumbled down the remaining stairs and steered himself to fall face first on a plush bed of silks. Unconsciousness taking him as he let out a deep sigh into the blankets. 


	12. Chapter 12

 

John’s escape to the seclusion of the secure room left Sherlock unsatisfied and unsettled.  He found it purely incredulous to believe that the other man felt he could keep this information from him, of all people.  There was no point or purpose to it, besides to prolong the other’s guilt-ridden suffering and his own frustration.  Why fight it?

One way or another the detective knew he would unravel this mystery that was vampirism, whether John helped with that or not. 

The room was not so hidden.  The house was a typical layout for the era and area.  He had known where the secure room was the moment they had entered the home.  He knew enough about Lestat and his kind to figure out that sunlight would need to be avoided.  Yet John had exhibited some peculiar symptoms as dawn had approached that matched his warning for the detective about interfering with his immortal slumber.  He presumed then that by now John was incapacitated, which meant he would be unaware if Sherlock heeded his caution or not. 

One could never be too thorough and so the man had decided to start with a run through of the home once more, taking special care to check every nook and cranny.  He found little that was vampirical in nature, just the odd individual preference that one could appreciate.  The building was very secure externally from intrusion but not beyond what could be expected of an individual who traveled extensively.  This was obviously a stop over home, not meant to be used as a permanent residence, so it seemed only equipped with the essentials. 

There was no food in the cupboards or the fridge, yet one was present, and there were no clothes or personal items in the upstairs bedrooms.  The library was one of the few rooms that showed any individuality, displayed in the extensive collection of books that lined all four walls. 

There was also a liquor cabinet with an impressive array or vintage whiskeys, scotch, and other fine liquors.  The sight gave the detective pause.  Some of the bottles were open, liquor consumed, and the glasses showed wear even though they were of the finest crystal.  Could a vampire still consume the contents of this impeccable collection?  If not, what purpose did they serve?  Who was consuming them?  It was one of the many questions that begged him to be answered. 

The very fact that vampirism was still just a common myth to the general masses was intriguing.  It spoke to the fact that there was perhaps very few of their kind in comparison to mortal numbers.  How else could an entire species remain so elusive when they in fact fed on the common?  How had they kept their kind so secret and for how long had vampires existed?  It was obvious that they were not a secluded species.  John had become what he knew as a vampire, so it stood to reason that the same was true of all others.  This was some kind of human evolution or human transformation. 

From the library Sherlock had quickly found the locked door, behind which John now slept.  It was a solid slab of steel, with no visible joint or rivet, thick enough to stop any kind of penetration.  It reminded him of a bank vault.  It was only more proof that during the day a vampire was incapacitated and therefore at their most vulnerable. 

Yet John had clearly cautioned him that his life would be in danger if he were to disturb him while in this state.  In the books, it had been explained that there were instinctual defenses that a vampire had to protect itself when unconscious.  This he had to see.

The vault-like door had a single key pad.  There was obvious use on many of the keys, which meant that the key changed.  If it was one’s last defense then he would assume that it changed frequently.  He studied the pad, the numbers, and the wear patterns.  He tried a few of the first patterns that easily rose from his observations.  All of them failed, so he switched tactics.  He tried a few of John’s more predictable codes.  His birthdate, his mother’s birthdate, his fathers, his enlist date, his decommission date, his deployment dates, Mary’s fake birthdate…all of these failed. 

Sherlock sighed.  He was disappointed and exhausted.  He was still feeling the effects of the blood loss from the penthouse—Lestat had brought him right to that point of no return—and he was still feeling more fatigued than he was accustomed to.  Perhaps he did require his sleep as well.  His brain was foggy and sluggish—a state of being he abhorred. 

The detective resignedly left the door and made his way back up to the bedrooms above.  He undressed mechanically, still running permutations for the code through his mind, as he crawled under the covers.  Exhausted, maybe, but he was nowhere near finished.  With his eyes closed and his body still he opened the doors of his mind palace, retreating inside to consider everything more.

His mind palace always had and always would be transformable.  It was a mental place that he could create to any specifications or desires, whether for studious purposes or pleasurable.  He could create wherever, whenever, and whatever scenario he needed to complete any task that he set before himself.  It was one of the very useful aspects of such a mental methodology.

Today was no different.  As he entered the mind palace the blank white space in his mind’s eye was transformed into the very simple morgue at St. Bart’s hospital.  He walked into the space as though he were a separate part of it, as though he were actually striding into the hospital morgue itself.  There was a body on the steel table and Molly awaited him.  Her dull colored eyes widened with the sight of him, as if this were a typical exercise between the two of them. 

“The subject is male, early forties, no visible signs of trauma to the body to indicate how he died,” she was listing for him all the particulars he would normally expect from her upon his arrival.

The detective approached the table in his quick strides, rolling up his sleeves, and when he was close enough he gave her image a petulant wave of his hand.  Molly disappeared like a wisp of smoke on a breeze.  He didn’t need her to tell him what he already knew.  He spared her not another second, instead casting his eyes down to the male on the table before him.

The skin was ghastly pale with death, nearly as white as the sheet that clothed the body to mid chest, much paler than the man had ever been when alive.  The face was placid in death, nearly crease-less in its perfection.  The man the detective had known, had wore these lines with pride.  Each had been a testament to life the man had lived, as much a part of him as was anything else.  Many would have cringed to see lines about their eyes or mouth at his age, but Sherlock had known them as lines of joy, defined the most when the man was very pleased.  It was odd to see them now, as though some higher power had come in with an eraser and removed them, as easily and as simply as graphite from paper.  The skin was in fact so smooth it almost seemed to be without pores, reminding the detective more of a marble statue than a man.

No other one individual Sherlock had ever had the pleasure of studying had exhibited anything like this.  What the ‘Woman’ wouldn’t have given to have skin of this level of perfection.  It would certainly up her game in the seduction department to wield such impressive beauty. 

Sherlock’s eyes moved over the subject’s face, down the length of exposed neck and collar bone, to the lump under the sheet that was the arm at the individual’s side.  He flipped back the white cotton with a quick flick of his fingers, taking the man’s wrist.  The member was cold with death and when he placed his first two fingers on the notch in the wrist he could detect no pulse.  He placed the hand back down at the man’s side and placed his hands on the neck just below the collar, with the same result.  To be expected.  The man had died after all.

Sherlock stepped back and drew his hand to his mouth, his index finger tapping against the pronounced bow of his upper lip, as he considered this fact.  The finger stopped tapping. Then he corrected his own conclusion, “But you’re not really dead, are you, John?”

  
With a suddenness that horror movie director’s would envy, John’s eyes snapped open and the undead body sat bolt upright with all the familiar indignation of his usual distaste to mornings. The movement was so fast it was almost impossible to track and the brunet was taken off guard by the sudden shift of power in his self-directed excursion into the sanctity of his mind-palace.

  
"Of course, I'm not _dead_!" Johns eyes were bright and reflective. Unnatural and mesmerizing. They were also casting an incredibly saturnine look at Sherlock, which did bemuse him.

"Obviously, John." The detective retorted, as he gripped the side of the steel table and closely considered his friend.  Invading the doctor’s personal space earned him a look of discomfort. "But you did die and have become, for lack of better terminology, re-animated. Not in a way that I yet understand. You, like all of your 'kind' are now locked in the age you were at the time of your demise. You're physical cells will never again age or deteriorate, from the little I have learned from my time with Lestat."

John visibly tensed at the mention of the his maker. "Hmph. I wouldn't trust anything that snake says."

The vampire’s backside pivoted on the table, bringing his legs to dangle off the side before he jumped to the floor beside the detective. The sheet fell away and he paid it little regard.  As the perfect naked flesh of his backside was revealed, John stood with his back to Sherlock and admired the morgue that he recognized.  He seemed curious, appraising his surroundings as if he were unaware why or how he was here.

Sherlock could sense that John was exerting a certain level of his own control over this scenario the detective had created for himself within the confines of the mind palace. As this became apparent to the doctor, he turned back towards his former lover. His thoughts were blatant, almost audible between them, as John took in the sight of him.  He was focused on the memory of the first time John had seen him like this, a lean man with his sleeves rolled up in a white collared shirt, intently focused on solving a puzzle. Now though, Sherlock noted, that John even noticed that his tousled dark curls needed a trim.  As John’s eyes roamed freely, moving ever downward, Sherlock quickly tried to regain his control over the scenario—rather than allow the other to have his way with it or to become lost in pondering how it would even be possible.

"Be that as it may, this much is consistent amongst your kind. The most intriguing is, despite how remarkable no longer physically aging may be, your mind also seems to gain this immortality as well and is able to continue to thrive." Sherlock was interrupted by a loud John derisive snort.

"Ha! Are you kidding? _Thrive_?? Lestat is bat-shit crazy." John scoffing, laughed. His anger regarding the other immortal was ever palpable. Sweeping a hand down to highlight his naked form as the creature he now was, the vampire did not seem to care what-so-ever that he was entirely naked. "You can't possibly see this as a good thing. 

The detective gave the revealed form before him an appraising sweep of his eyes, as his fingers tapped against his hip considerately.  Sherlock found it frustratingly hard to stay focused on the task at hand.  His eyes lingered at the strongly accented abs that John had always had, new even more chisled, given an obvious decrease in body fat.  Even the hollow of his naval seemed rousingly accentuated.  John snorted derisively, averting his gaze from the ever-curious scholar.  "Of course, you _would_ think that this is all bloody fascinating. 

The detective didn't respond to the scathing accusation.  There seemed no reason to argue his point further, here in this place.  Instead he returned to his own more immediate concerns.  "If you ingest blood, as sustenance, than are you limited to only feeding on humans?  What about mammalian or reptilian? Does the flavor change between species? Between ethnicity?"

"Stop it!" John's demand was piercing.  The detective felt his ear drums rattling, as he could not help visibly wincing.

John's gaze was just as penetrating, truly acrimonious in countenance.  There was no mistaking his anger, his palpable conviction of injustice and violation.  "Stop looking at me like I am a damn science experiment.  Look at _me_!"  John implored him, as that irascible anger transformed into grief.  His hands were on his own chest, more importantly over his heart, as he told the detective, "This is forever.  I will never be the same.  I will always be this and there is nothing…” That single word hung in the air a moment, pungent with feeling, stinging as it rang in the detective’s ear drums, “…that  _you_  can do about it."

The words had time to soak in, to slip through his pores into his very being, as John raked a frustrated hand back through his short ashen hair.  Then he nabbed Sherlock by the back of the neck, drawing them close, his icy brow meeting the heat of the others.  In earnest he explained, "I chose this...so you didn't die.  I will not embrace this, but I would never take it back.  Not for a second.  Not for anything.  Do you hear me?"

Sherlock was convinced of it now.  This was proof.  John could read his mind, was always listening, always tapped in—probably whether he wanted to be or not.  John was right.  It was fascinating.  It was also infuriating, exhilarating, and confusing.  Especially to see these very real demonstrations of who and what his doctor now was displayed here in a way that he refused to allow to be seen in reality.

This proximity was too much.  They were too close and even though John was pouring out his tortured soul to him, all Sherlock could think to do was fix it.  Solve it.  Embrace it.  

John did the latter for him.  With a press of his head, the doctor's lips were suddenly, crushingly, against his own.  They were open, hungry, and yearning.  This Sherlock knew the answer to.  He pressed his hips forward, wasting no time with hesitation, and grappled the man he had been aching to embrace.

The flesh was smooth and hot. There was no identifying who owned the moans he was hearing, the hard press of their chests against one another reverberated with the sounds of pleasure. His tongue greedily delving into the mouth of his lover, waring against an equal foe as both men passionately tried to consume the other.

Strong hands that had wrapped around him now tore at his shirt and with a whimper John shoved Sherlock back, staggering the taller man for a moment.

There was a strangulating look of agony in John’s eyes.  It caused a pang of fear of this all ending before it had even begun—that Sherlock was hoping for and expecting more than John would ever allow him to have again.  He swallowed, trying not to contemplate the odds that rushed unbiddenly through his mind, when suddenly that look vanished.

 The momentary hesitation ended and was replace with a vexing lust that doubled the ache in his heart and loins.  John lunged at him, decided and focused, violently ripping the detective’s shirt open. Sherlock’s surprise melded into a groan, as those familiar lips assaulted his collar, blazing a hot trail down his chest. The flick of wet tongue across his nipple followed by a gentle bite left him gasping.

The shirt was pulled down to trap Sherlock’s arms behind him and John’s dark eyes flashed up at him dangerously. The threat was clear. Sherlock was to willingly remain trapped for the time being. To let John, have this power over him, to let John have him in any way that the man wanted. There was nothing more the consulting detective wanted than John.

A cacophony of emotions flooded through him but they caught fire and melted into only the need for the man in front of him.

“Johhhhh-ohhhh…ohh God!” The press of John’s cupped palm against his straining erection caused Sherlock’s head to fall forward, as he swallowed hard. The strong hand fondled and squeezed against him, eliciting non-sense moans and half-formed words that spread a wicked grin across the doctor’s lips.  

The detective watched as the man who he had once know as his lover lavished his torso with the expertise the two of them had honed together when they had shared long feverish nights at the Baker Street flat.  He had always loved to watch John's mouth a work, the thin lips swelling pink with arousal as a result of their lust.  Now as a vampire it was altogether strange and familiar, his desire not yet enough to cloud his mind's scrutiny of events.  

He was fascinated by John—he always had been—but now that fascination had become so much more.  John had become more, more than a man, immortally preserved, forever.  He was the same and he was different.  He was still John Watson, but a strangely younger version that Sherlock had not known and now had the pleasure of exploring.  It was as though the vampirical changes had brought the man back to his pique physical form and transformed that into the vampire that John was now.  

The press of his kisses and of his tongue lapping at each of his erect nipples in turn, was not so different.  If anything it was all the more erotic for the changes wrought on his lover and for the wait the two of them had endured, caged by the morals of civilized society.  Here, within his mind, Sherlock would take this.  He would enjoy it for every moaning amorous moment that it provided him with, regardless of knowing that he had slipped out of his mind palace, surely into a state of lucid dreaming, and even though he realized that he was no more in control of what happened.

John's mouth and teeth scrapped against his skin, kissing and nipping, the press of those sharp fangs ever present as the man moved slowly lower.  All the while his lips and tongue worked, so did his hands.  One hand held his arms tangled in the knot of his own dress shirt, as the other worked open the front of his trousers with but a flicker of movement—so fast. He was suddenly exposed, his pants pulled down so that his straining cock was freed.  Sherlock could feel his erection pressing hot and ready against the cooler fingers of the immortal that gripped him, those fast hands slowly deliberate, as they began to work up and down his length. 

The hot mouth drew ever lower, lapping around and delving into his naval, as though not an inch of him could go unmapped, before finally descending low enough that the hot tip of his own cock pressed against the man's cheek.  Where now and again Sherlock had known there to be stubble, never terribly smooth, was now perfectly supple, and soft, the cool press on the skin against his cock thrilling.  The detective moaned loudly, repeating his lover's name, as his hips rocked forward with yearning, forcing the tip of his exposed length to rub against the wet lips that were parted in a wicked grin Sherlock had only known a time or two.  

John spared him a look, that young face turning up to catch the detective with those startling deep navy speckled eyes, as the mouth parted wide and a pink tongue darted out to moisten the end of his erection.  His cock twitched in appreciation and anticipation, his loins pulling with the desire of seeing that man's wet mouth open and waiting, taunting and teasing him.  It had been too long.  He could wait no longer.  He rocked his hips forward again, a small portion of his straining erection popping past the open lips, before John drew back—mouth still grinning.  

"You want this, don't you?  You want me to take you in my mouth." he said, his voice soft and smooth like it had never been before, damn near melodious to hear singing such desire.  John always had liked to hear him say it.

His cocked twitched again, as he shuttered, and admitted through clenched teeth, "God, yes, John."

Sherlock's voice was husky with desire, causing a pleasurable purr to rumble in John’s chest at the effect he had on his detective. He had never stopped desiring the man now straining against him, never was able to fully strike the recollection of their fevered love-making from his mind, despite his attempts. There was nothing so delicious as having the genius quivering, stuttering and begging for his touch. It sent hot waves of desire rolling through him, twitching his own throbbing need as his tongue darted out and swiped at the seeping head of the detective’s cock. The hips rocking forward as he took the entire length all at once in a smooth and sudden motion. Sherlock's fingers dug into the back of his scull as he gasped Johns name, somewhere between surprise and ecstasy. Head tossed back, Johns eyes gazed upwards to admire the bob of the adams apple as his lover swallowed shakily. Letting the thick shaft in his mouth slide slowly through his lips as his tongue swept languidly around the head that remained in the warmth of his wet mouth.

His own hands gripped the toned ass, squeezing the glutes appreciatively as he pulled the detective back within his own mouth without hardly any encouragement required. Sherlock's breath was a mixture of pleasurable sounds, as he rocked his hips in as gentle a rhythm as he could manage with his senses being overcome with desire and the want to spend himself in the deliciously warm mouth of the beautiful man on his knees in front of him. The long slender fingers were confused, shaking, clenching and unclenching in the short silken dirty blond hair. Alternating between gripping madly and smoothing the hair back absently as Sherlock looked down to watch the impossibly erotic sight of John swallowing his cock again and again in varying depths and rhythms.

"How could you have gotten better at this?" The question left his lips with a hiss at the end as John swallowed and constricted the hot wet cavern that engulfed him.

After a moment John let his lover slide free from his mouth, earning a mournful little whimper as he licked his lips and swallowed. He met the rich lust-darkened eyes of the detective and smiled slyly, "Maybe I just missed you."

The grin cast up at him showed the barest hint of the sharpened incisors and somehow the predatory look made John even more desirable. Sherlock groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, feeling overloaded by his desire, his want of all of this, of John, of how he found himself in this dream and how real it all felt. John watched and felt the store brewing in Sherlock and rose to his feet, staring intently at the man he truly loved. This was real, as real as it could be and as it needed to be.

When Sherlock's eyes opened and cast down to his own, he reached a hand up through the dark curls and brought the taller man down by the back of the neck, into a deep kiss. Mouths open and tongues probing, searching, tasting as Sherlock's arms wrapped around him with a type of desperation.

John felt it too, as if he was trying to find away into to the flesh of his lover. His throbbing desire pulsed and reminded him of exactly how much he wanted that. With all the skill of a trained fighter he hooked his foot around the taller man and toppled him to the ground, using his unnatural speed and strength to prevent any injury or hard impact. They were on the ground, John between Sherlock's long legs as the two men ground against one another. The kiss had been broken on the decent and he trailed the aggressive kisses back down the lean torso before effortlessly hooking Sherlock's legs over his arms and hefting the mans backside off the floor, as ran his tongue in a long lap through the crevasse of Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock lavished in the control that his former lover was now reasserting over him.  He had lusted far too many nights for the demanding yearning touches and caresses of this man and although this was only an illusion drummed up by the recesses of his mind, never before had it been this real, this vivid, this sensual.  The feeling of John’s nips and kisses and licks of his tongue were electric, eliciting moans from his own lips that he was unable to monitor or control.  His own hands groped for the other, his long fingers finding the head that pressed those teasing presses of mouth and tongue, slipping through the short hair with encouraging strokes.  For all the words that he normally would have at the ready at any given moment all the detective could do was moan, the eloquence of speech departed, replaced by the arousing lust that was overtaking his every fiber. 

With no strain or effort on his part John kept his hips raised, kissing and teasing, as the detective felt his lover’s other hand slip over and around one cheek, a finger pressing and massaging, preparing to gain entry.  The pleasure was immense, his need even more so, as Sherlock’s eyes closed with ecstasy at the skilled touch of his lover’s preparations. First one finger working inside and finally a second. 

“Yes, John…yes!” Sherlock could only pant, as the fingers began to work a steady pace, reaching and probing just far enough to make his skin light with fire and his senses tingle with arousal. 

Against the cheek of his lover his own erection strained and John, in kind, lapped and licked at the swollen tip that yearned for more.  Just as the detective was reaching that point of no return, his lover pulled back, and in one liquid movement Sherlock found himself flipped, tummy on the cold floor of the morgue, as John pressed up behind him.  It was like two pieces that fit and worked only together were suddenly reunited, the cogs of their mechanism slipping back into gear, tandem movement once more a possibility.  He felt John’s hard erection pressing and raised his hips to meet his lover.  With a gasp and a shutter, Sherlock felt the head of his lover’s cock enter, pausing only the barest of moments for him to catch his stuttered breath, before it was forced forward and John pushed into him fully. 

His moan was answer enough.  No need to repeat how much he wanted this from the other man, how much he had yearned for this, fantasized about this moment. 

His lover waited, allowing Sherlock the time to adjust, to feel, and memorize the rapture of this moment.  Sherlock could feel John’s pleasured smile, pressing against his shoulder, moving to tenderly run kisses from the nape of his neck to his shoulder, before he rocked his hips back and ever so slowly forward.  The feeling was immense, the pressure exhilarating, as Sherlock found the rhythm of his lover and began to match it.  Moving and breathing became his main focus, struggling to keep his breaths even as their love making continued. 

The detective could feel the playful kisses turn to nips at his neck, as John gave a low moan that nearly sounded like a growl by his ear.  “You’ve…you have wanted this, haven’t you?” he heard his lover ask, never ceasing their continuous movement against one another.

It took the detective a moment to rationalize and conjure a response, to fight past the lust of their love making, to form an answer.  “Since…since the day… I jumped.” He panted back. 

John moaned again, his cock plunging harder into Sherlock, as he continued, “I was convinced…you had left—that you had planned to leave.” John’s moan was a growl this time, before he finished, “You made love to me that night.  It was no longer…just sex to you.”

The motion from behind became more rapt, more focused, and Sherlock had trouble stringing his words together, although he desperately needed to say them.  “I had…I had planned it.  Every detail.  I needed to…Ah, yes, yes!”

“You needed to…?” John’s voice was angry and confused, a hiss, against his neck and cheek, as his cock slammed into the detective with lust driven fervor.

“I needed… Ah!...to protect you.  It was…it was the only way to ensure you would be safe.” Sherlock replied, as he tried to match the pace his lover had set.  “I needed to know you no harm would come to you—that they believed, could plainly see, that I had died—so I could do away with the remnants of Moriarty’s web.  I had planned it…but I had planned…Ah!  Planned to depart….n-not to leave you.”

Sherlock let out a startled cry that was half moaned, as he felt the sharp pierce of his lover’s fangs. The teeth tore without grace into the deltoid, where his neck met his shoulder.  He could feel the hot well of his own blood being pulled into the mouth of his lover and suddenly his body was overwhelmed.  In a shuttering constriction of muscles, he came, spilling his own hot fluid, as John drank from him.

His eyes opened, as his body constricted, and he was suddenly bolt upright in the bed he had laid down on, in the upstairs bedroom of the safe house.  His chest was heaving, his breaths panting, as wildly he came back to his senses.  The pain in his shoulder was still a blistering memory, his hand running the length of the muscle to ascertain that it was in fact still intact. 

Sherlock flopped backwards, the mattress bobbing with the sudden thrash of movement.  He closed his eyes, willing the dream to return, only to be greeted by infuriating blackness and silence.  He willed his chest to stop heaving, his breaths to slow, finding the task cumbersome.  As he did so, his hands pressed down the length of his torso, finding his cock still twitching, sensitive and damp from the fantasy.  It felt amazing and yet incredibly disappointing.  He had wanted it to be real and although it had been amazing, it was far from reality.

He brought a hand up to his brow, finding it slicked with sweat, as he looked about the room and tried to ascertain what time it was.

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

John awoke that evening with his new body aching for the first time since the change. Not painful, just a niggling feeling of cramped muscles. After he had made his way upright he tried shaking it off and finally had purposely tensed his entire body and held it for a moment before releasing. The sensation slowly dissipated, an old trick he had learned from an army buddy after his first active mission.

Once the discomfort was dealt with he stood.  He stayed still for a long while in the dimly lit room. The dream that had consumed most of his slumber was vivid and fresh in his mind, unlike any of the others he had experienced, before or after his mortal death. Although it had not really been a dream, had it? It had been realistic alright but despite how lucid he felt with-in it, the reactions of this Sherlock that had been conjured in his mind were too organic. Stranger still, the dream incarnations of them both had remained in the morgue, not a place he fancied an intimate encounter, and at the moment he had given into his desire to imagine claiming the consulting detective in every way, he had been forcibly ejected from the dream when Sherlock had climaxed.  It was too bad, he mused now.  He rather liked the way the detective had given in to his dominating thrusts and could still hear his panted moans of pure wanton ecstasy.

Rubbing a hand over his face he held a deep breath for a moment. Looking at his foot he became fairly certain that had jolted awake from the dead sleep for a moment before descending back into the abyss and didn't recall any further dreams. It was weird. Then again, everything was weird. He was a vampire, Mycroft was part of an ancient boogyman watching society, Moriarty was some sort of crazy powerful wizard or something, and he and Sherlock were... well, currently trying not to get blown up. So much for just wanting to find out what had happened to Mary. Though, he knew he was being somewhat dishonest with himself when he needed to try to convince himself that it was the only reason for his return.

Finally accepting he couldn't just hide out in the safe room all night, John had ventured up to find Sherlock. To his surprise the detective was asleep on the sofa.  It was immediately apparent that he had not remained in the house the whole day as John had requested. His laptop was on the coffee table and there were several newspaper articles strewn about the room, interspersed with various coffee shop disposable cups, some still half full and others still warm, and an antique china bowl had been disgracefully turned into an ashtray. Open, the pack of fags was half empty when John got close enough to inspect. The smell wafting up from the ashtray was awful and flared his annoyance. He kicked the edge of the sofa, startling the other man awake.

"You git. That's not even an ashtray." John snipped, pointing at the disgraced bowl. For emphasis he snatched one of the empty cups and beaned the indignant and ruffled brunet in the head with it.

Sherlock curled up reflexively at the assault then sat up, peevishly, "Really, John! I don't understand why you’re so fowl. It's not your house."

"Exactly!" John shot back, shaking his head. "Show an ounce of decency and clean this up before I'm back."

The statement transformed Sherlock's expression from indifference, to interest, and then quickly to indignation, all within a fraction of a second. "Where are we going?"

" _We_... are going no where." John stressed. "I... am going to ‘er—out."

"You’re going to feed." Sherlock corrected, much to John’s annoyance.

"Fine, whatever. I'll be back within the hour.  Do. Not. Leave." He had never had much luck convincing Sherlock to do anything the man didn't already care to do, and he could actually feel the annoyance of the other man along with whirring ideas on how exactly he would track John once he left.

"Alright." Came the detectives surprising response and immediately John somehow knew the detective’s focus had switched to attempting to gain access to the 'safe room' while the vampire was gone.

"NO! You leave that alone!" John snapped

Sherlock looked befuddled for a moment, for he now had confirmation on how and where John had gotten the inclination of his plan. Figuring it best to play ignorant he replied, "Leave what alone? You don't want me going then fine. I won't. I will stay here like a good little detective and work on the case."

"Like hell you will. As soon as I leave you're going to try to get into the basement." John crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling too much like a scolding parent who had the sixth sense to know when their petulant child was up to no good.

"John, I—" Sherlock looked offended and not quite as confused and caught as he felt.

"Don't bother." John cut him off, "I _know_ that's what you were planning! How does it feel, huh?! Having someone else always, just, know what it is that your planning on doing. Who's deducing whom now?!" John actually felt pretty damn good about realizing that his access to Sherlock's thoughts could be an incredibly useful tool.  It was at least one good thing about the bombarding thoughts that zipped through his head like bullets.

“Very interesting,” the detective mused, leaning back in his seat on the couch, as those calculating eyes zeroed in on the vampire before him, “you really are capable of telepathy.”

John shook his head and waved his arms in a x-motion at his friend, warning the detective, “Get those science-experiment eyes off of me, Sherlock!  It’s bloody annoying, not fascinating, or whatever you might fancy it is.”

The detective’s head twitched to the side at this and suddenly the man was standing, a finger pointed at the vampire before him, as he continued, “Only when one is unable to control the flow.  If you can receive information unbidden from other’s minds than you can also control it, you need only to find the means.”  The brunet’s eyes were damn near sparkling with interest.

“As if it were that simple.” John mumbled, turning from the man. 

Using his vampirical gifts he moved from the room and returned in but a flash to the detective’s eyes.  Upon his return there was a satisfying click of closure, as John secured the newly deposited handcuff around the man’s wrist to the conveniently placed radiator nearest.  The vampire stood back and admired the shock and anger registering on the detective’s features, as he stepped back to admire his handy work.  He wasn’t exactly sure why there was a pair of handcuff’s in the safe room, but they sure as hell were damn convenient now.

“This is childish, John!  I demand that you release me at once!  This will serve no one.” The detective raged through grit teeth, as he stopped pulling uselessly on the metal cuffs that bit into his wrist.

“It serves me perfectly well for the time being.” John announced, unable to keep the triumph and mirth from his tone.  “Look,” he negotiated, “I can tell already that it will probably only take you fifteen minutes to figure yourself a way out of them, but let it serve as a warning, Sherlock.  If we are going to be working together then you need to listen to me.  You need to trust me.  Respect me. And yes,” he gave a resigned sigh, running a hand back through his hair, before admitting, “I am going out to feed.  You’re not invited.  Stay here.  Stop leaving while I am unable to protect you.  Figure out what the hell possessed Moriarty and then find a way to kill that bloody bastard, once and for all. Okay?”

His only response from his prisoner was a growl of frustration.

“I won’t be more than an hour.”  John instructed, turning to leave, “Get to work.”

Sherlock watched the vampire disappear in seconds, vanishing in a blur of motion that was becoming positively loathsome to tolerate. 

***

Heat and pain were the only things that registered. If there had been even the briefest pause in either then perhaps there would have been thoughts on escape. Some sort of reasoning for the torture now being administered. Anything really, but there hadn’t been any such reprieve since Lestat had been blinked out of the lavish home of the elder Holmes brother and entered this perpetual state of agony.

The man who was once James Moriarty sat casually, one leg crossed over the other in the high director’s chair and watched the immortal creature writhe, mouth gaping in screams that the demon had rendered silent. The vampire’s striking blue eyes were now dark, the pupil wide and unfocused, seeing nothing of the space the two creatures inhabited. A seemingly endless black space, no walls or ceiling or floor. Just the pale naked form, which thrashed about the space wildly, alternating from laying on the ground and staggering about, clawing at himself and the empty space around him.

Moriarty found it rather good entertainment while he was thinking. He would pop in whenever it struck him.  He munched away at popcorn in the novelty oversized theatre bag, while he sat in his perch. Plucking a handful of the white puffy kernels, he errantly began tossing them at the gaping mouth of his blond victim, who railed wildly about.

It was such a pain having to wait on cosmic alignments, though it gave him plenty of time to ensure his plans were formulated to include every possible detail. The vampires had been a little more erratic then he had anticipated initially but the biggest trouble-maker was being punished for misbehaving.  He tossed another kernel and this time hit Lestat in the open eye.

“Ha! 5 Points for me.” He cheered exuberantly, proudly of himself. He threw the next handful of buttery kernels into his own mouth happily.

“You didn’t even flinch. Good job, Lestat.” The tormentor complimented.

Snapping his finger’s the vampire suddenly crumpled. Lestat’s breathing was ragged, all the muscles of his body shaking with exhaustion, as he lay in an awkward heap of limbs that had given way like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Ah, now sunshine, how are you feeling?” The nasal voice barely registered in the ears of the immortal, his head pounding as he fought the impending blackness of unconsciousness. The voice continued to talk.

“A bit rude...but I imagine you’re a little worn out from all the fun we’ve been having.” Moriarty slipped out of the high chair and walked over to the prone body, giving it a slow flick with the toe of his polished shoe to roll Lestat onto his back easily. “I’m going to give you a little time to consider your poor life choices in annoying me, Lestat. Then, when I come back, we’re going to come to a whole new understanding.”

Moriarty lent down and gently patted drawn cheek of the weeping vampire. He brought his fingers to his mouth, red with bloody tears, and happily sucked them clean with a gleeful chuckle, enjoying the creature’s misery.

“Yummy. Your pain is like honey, Lestat. I can’t wait to taste more of it. I would serve it at my dinner party if my guests could appreciate it. Speaking of which, I need to run. Enjoy your little break, Bye-e.”  
There was soft pop and then only the broken and weeping form of the vampire Lestat remained in the black space, with only the sound of his quiet sobs.

***

Mycroft settled himself into the backseat as his faithful attendant closed the door before taking her own seat. The black privacy glass that divided them allowed him to not be concerned with perception as he brought up his hands to rub at the bridge of his nose and take in a slow deep breath, obvious exhaustion in his huffing exhalation.

Anthea handed him a cup of hot tea and he sneered at the offer, even though he begrudgingly accepted it.  The elder Holmes was not used to being snubbed and it left him in a splenetic mood.  The tea was just another offense, at that point, that he really had no option of rebuffing.  They were in a miserable part of London and in all honesty he was surprised his young attendant had found a cup of anything.  It was warm in his hands, a soothing comfort that mimicked half decent drink if nothing else.

His eyes lapsed out the window, as he held the tea, not sure he wanted to actually drink the subpar brew.  They calculatingly raked over the dark and grungy buildings.  To say that they were derelict was a horrendous understatement.  He had thought that if they were to be meeting with a member of the ultra-secretive Talmasca that it would be at least somewhere bearably civilized. David, however, had not flinched upon entering the water logged abandoned factory. Even in the car, the stale waft of excrement and sea rot was notable. Mycroft supposed that little of that mattered at this point.  They had a supernatural killer knocking at the cities door step—an old foe risen from the bloody grave to threaten his domain once more. 

Being a vampire, David would harbor little fear from the agent.  He was far faster and stronger, as well as impervious to most known human means of death.  The Elder Holmes stopped himself, leaning an elbow on the sill of the car window to prop his chin in, as he watched the building.  That was a bald-faced assumption and assumptions were dangerous.  Perhaps not all the agents met his definition of human.  One could ascertain from becoming aware of vampires and possibly demons that any human organization that planned on watching such creatures must also employ above-human qualities in some form or another.  The secret organization certainly did a good job of remaining under the radar, even to high profile government liaisons, such as himself.    

Rain pattered lightly on the blackened window of the car, the only sound breaking the silence other than Anthea’s infernal typing.  If one were watching the building they would be completely unaware that two individuals were inside.  He hoped that it stayed that way. 

This mission was above and beyond his scope of practice.  The government was certainly unaware that he was delving into this mystery and he had had quite a time clearing any suspicions and concerns involving the sudden destruction of his home.  This was all aside from his regular duties and its tedious nature was beginning to fray his nerves.  He had other things to consider, other rabbits to chase, and this hole was becoming too long and dark.  If only Sherlock had taken his advice in the first place, had taken the damned ticked and escaped this mess, he could have been spared this terribly messy clean up. 

Mycroft certainly did regret John Watson’s current predicament, a grievous result of Sherlock’s own inability to leave well enough alone. 

It had been a shock to see the young man that had replaced the worn out military doctor—it was unbelievable how the dark change worked on each individual.  John looked like a young man again.  He was pleasing to look at—he could see why Sherlock could love this man—even if the doctor himself was none too pleased to be trapped in this new condition.  John had always been spit and fire, dutifully loyal to a fault—Sherlock needed that—and even now Mycroft would use it to his advantage.  He cared little of John’s fate.  His sole focus was and always had been his brother—the one thing he always seemed to fail conquering. 

Not this time.  He had to prevent Sherlock from becoming a vampire—the consequences would be utterly unthinkable. 

It was not very long before the figure of David emerging from the building caught his eye.  David dashed through the falling rain in a blur of motion, the door to the car suddenly opening as the vampire ducked inside.  His pretty attendant spared her mobile phone a moment in order to share a glance across the facing backseats to meet the eyes of the vampire that had rejoined them, as he settled into the seat and closed his door.  Little did Anthea realize that her perfect pout was impervious agianst the handsome anglo-indian.

Mycroft wasted no time.  He had been refused by the informant David had dug up, the only one that had accepted David’s request for information, and Mycroft had been forced to sit this one out.  “What did he say?” he snipped.

David’s eyes glanced across the seat to his mortal companion, as the car pulled away into the darkness of the rainy London streets.  They were filled with trepidation—Mycroft could still read his old friend—it would not be what they wanted. 

The driver started the car and slowly maneuvered them out of the grimy alleyway.

“Actually, it was a she.” David casually corrected.

This did surprise Mycroft but he kept his lips tight together instead of rebutting such an inconsequential fact. 

“She had used the cover of a superior officer’s name and rank to gain access to meeting with me.  Apparently I was refused originally by Marcus Vanton as well.” David explained, his own agitation apparent in the slight he felt.  Needless he repeated, “I have told you, the Talmasca knows of my transition and are wary of any interaction they themselves did not initiate.  They wish to watch and observe, not interfere, and they fear any information leaving the sanctity of their own grasp.”

“But this agent thinks otherwise.” Mycroft surmised, impatiently.  “Why?”

“She works beneath Marcus and found out about the invitation unintentionally.  She is interested in Lestat’s escapades and the extensive file that the organization keeps on my Maker.  She sees this as a means of possibly garnering access to vampires.  It is the folley of a young inexperienced agent that has proven to be our advantage.” David paused, reiterating ineffectually, “We are lucky to have met with anyone.”

“And what information has she fed you?” Mycroft snapped, disparaging, “Is it even credible?”

“I do believe that it is.” David said, an opinion that Mycroft doubted he might share.  “She has no knowledge of Moriarty or more likely no access to any information that the organization may have.  She did however have information regarding Miss Mary Morstan.”

“It was a targeted killing.  If the Talmasca has no need for interference than why kill her?” Mycroft questioned. 

“She was targeted but not by the Talmasca, although I am sure that if she had defected and threatened the organization in any way that they would have overseen that she was sufficiently neutralized.” David explained.  It gave the impression that David had known about other potential target killings by the organization itself.  “But this was another group entirely.”

“A rebel faction.” Mycroft answered, “Had she been a part of this group?”

“The girl could not verify that.” David responded, “It seems that all she was able to find out was that the Talmasca believes she was targeted and killed by this faction, a group which they are currently monitoring.  Although Mary Morstan had defected, they cannot prove that she left to join this group.  If they did not neutralize her than it is clear—”

“They did not feel she was of a threat.  Yet she was being fully monitored to prove that.” Mycroft finished.  “So, therefore they are also aware of John Watson’s change and of our involvement.”

David nodded his affirmation.  His golden irises flickered, as they passed under the illuminated street lamps, terribly beautiful and fierce at the same time.  Then the significance of this fact hit Mycroft.  “Which also means that the organization is aware that they had members who have defected to this radical faction.”

“They are being picked apart.” David explained, “They are unable to thus far ascertain if these members are leaving willingly or not, even though a large focus of their manpower has been shifted to cover this new threat.  This group of individuals is interfering—the opposite of what the Talmasca stands for.”

“What type of agents have been defecting?” Mycroft demanded.

“She was unaware.” David replied, with a shake of his head, “With how this is affecting the organization I am surprised that she had as much information as she did.  This would be leagues above her standing.”  The vampire paused, both of them deep in thought, before he resumed, adding, “She was able to release the name of an individual that she believes is linked to the rebel faction.  I do not see as there is a clear link to this Moriarty but we have nothing else to go on.”

“It is a stretch.  We have no evidence to suggest that Moriarty is linked to the Talmasca in the least.” Mycroft scoffed, made even more irritable with this new information.  “It’s still something to throw to Sherlock that would keep him relatively safe.”

David raised an eyebrow at this and Mycroft gave a rumbled sigh, explaining, “My little brother is far more dangerous left to his own devices.  At least this way he will be kept busy with something that we know John will follow as well, while we try to dive more into Moriarty’s background and his new found powers.”  Mycroft thought for a moment and then asked, “So, the Talmasca is unaware that Lestat is missing?”

“She explained that they were aware but not of the perpetrator.” David replied, “The Talmasca was watching Lestat, hardly ever stop, but they simply did not have the access to your property.”

“I should hope not.” Mycroft sniffed, disdainfully. 

“All they know is that Lestat entered and after the explosion has yet to resurface.  They think that the explosion of the penthouse and your flat was his doing.” The vampire continued.

“Is he physically capable of combustion?” Mycroft wondered, slightly disbelieving.

“There are many gifts that vampires may come to wield with age and bloodline.  Unfortunately, Lestat has many of these, combustion amongst the least of our worries.” David replied with a small smile to the corner of his lips.  “Far worse is what you have already witnessed, his inability to keep from meddling.”

Mycroft cast a glance at Anthea, who had an all too telling twitch to the corner of her lips that plainly stated this type of annoyance was nothing new for the older Holmes brother. Mycroft scowled and the pretty brunette shrugged her shoulders unapologetically. Taking the cue that she was not currently needed she tapped on the privacy glass that separated the driver from the passenger. The car came to a gentle stop before she silently exited and left the two men alone in the car.

“There are no more resources for me to access when it comes to this matter, you should know, M.” David’s use of the pet name earned him the barest hint of something besides deep consideration of the next move. Mycroft took in a deep breath and looked at his companion with a tired expression.

“I suspected as much and I thank you, David. I have some rabbits I set to run on this course and can only hope the hounds will come chasing. I don’t care to play this type of hand often but don’t see much use in the conventional means of acquiring further useful information.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the tension slowly mounting behind his eyes. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours since the explosion of his home. Honestly, the last few months for the highly engrained government agent had been hellish.

Sherlock had left Baker Street. He had guesses to what had happened but there were other factors that demanded his attention. Matters that meant his own life as well as even bigger stakes should he put the greater need after his own selfish desire to take care of his inept little brother. Even now, the vehicle they traveled in was returning, not to his temporary home but to one of his offices. The explosion had to be explained to those he reported too. Multi-million-dollar mansions belonging to top government agents simply don’t blow up without everyone having an enquiry.

Hard questions would need to be answered and sooner rather than later. Not to mention there were other large scale issues completely unrelated to his own personal dramas that required immediate action. There simply was no time to rest, no time to lavish in the luxury of dallying with former lovers or to do any more than put the few scant and trusted resources he had, on the case and hope it would be enough. Enough to, at the very least, get those he reported too off of his back without scathing enquiries as to how he could possibly be so sloppy as to lose his own home to…?

Terrorists? No—there was no way it would benefit him to have this connected to one of the many factions that would have loved to take credit for destroying Mycroft Holmes personal estate.

“It was an accident.” David’s voice broke the deep contemplation and Mycroft blinked with a slight jerk of his head to meet the rich coffee colored eyes. The terrifying thought that this vampire had somehow managed to break through his mental defences crossed the mortal’s mind, but was quickly banished. Shining with compassion and wisdom, the immortal eyes of his companion crinkled ever so slightly as the corners.  David Talbot always had been good at reading others.  Mycroft remembered taking great pleasure in challenging the older man’s expertise many year ago.

“Accident, hm?” Mycroft heard himself say, softly, absently. So tired and easily captivated by those eyes, the color was new but the look felt, in a way, like coming home.

“Yes,” the warm chuckle behind David’s tone made the mortal man relax as he reached out and gave a gentle pat to Mycroft’s knee. “It was a gas leak that caused the explosion and there is no conceivable way that your many watchers could know a supernatural creature had set it all off. Especially if the Talamasca haven’t been able to figure it all out. Not that I doubt your own organizations skill.”

Mycroft considered it, feeling a little petulant at the thought of being considered careless enough to not notice a gas leak in his own home. “Perhaps I could blame it on the incompetence of staff.” Mycroft huffed.

“See, that’s more like it.” David laughed and Mycroft couldn’t help but crack a smile.

Shortly after the two men parted ways, David choosing a spot to make his exit long before Mycroft arrived at his destination. A promise to keep in touch and that information would be shared if acquired and useful.

As the sleek black car pulled away the immortal took in a deep breath of the London air. He did love this city. Missed it whenever he was apart from it for too long. His mind had been made up on his own involvement in the strange maelstrom that had presented itself. There were enough facets at play from his observations that he too had become terribly certain some other greater powers were at work.

 Whatever those powers were, he could tell, call it intuition or what-have-you, that they were not good. Not just in the limited scope of those individuals involved, but his experience told him, even on a more grander scale.

The Talamasca were done helping. The agent had made that perfectly clear. This would be the last time he was able to use his clout as the former head to garner any interactions from the group that they did not initiate. That being said, his focus was now on the rogue faction and that was precisely whom he was now going to seek out.


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

 

 

 

John came out of the shadows of an alley into the light of the bustling street.  Louis would certainly question the fledgling’s choice of feeding grounds, but the doctor knew London better than even the older vampire did.  He knew where to find those that his mentor had taught him to prey upon, the sinfully bound, and he really didn’t want to leave the detective alone for too long at the safe house. John knew all to well what the man was capable of.

The vampire cursed the bloody man’s name, as he gave the lower half of his face a cleansing swipe.  It was a double-check habit that he knew would be difficult to break.  As he passed under the lights of the street lamps he caught a glimpse of the light reflecting off of his nails and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.  He kept his eyes lowered, disliking how the mortals stared.   _Wow…mortals?_   He really was slipping away from humanity, little by little each night that passed.

As if in conflict with that sentiment he raised his eyes and held his head a little higher.  Lestat certainly was not one to shrink away and he supposed he understood why.  They were powerful, much more power than John had ever imagined possessing, and he could simply disappear if he so chose.  If he wanted to stick to the shadows he could be high flying across the rooftops out of sight, but the thought of that was even more supernatural than strolling amongst people on the sidewalk. 

Louis had talked about hiding, about long peaceful nights spent in the shadows avoiding prey at any cost, and also about the misery that solitude could bring.  John had decided to take that as a word of caution.  Louis had also advised that he not run into any of his old acquaintances and John had known this meant mainly the detective.  Well, Lestat had ruined that plan royally.

Sherlock would have found a way. The detective desired to be close to him and John suspected that the man was still wishing to pursue what had been abandoned for the sake of Moriarty and his web.  The doctor wasn’t so sure about that now, had certainly not been accepting of it before, and it was made even more complex now that he knew for certain that his Mary had been murdered. 

The dream during his day slumber had been a poignant gouge in his reserve.  He had felt so in control and that control had him taking Sherlock in a way he had never done before.  Worse yet was the way the man had complied—no, had surrendered to his want and desires.  John had woke with the taste of the man’s blood in his mouth, something that had haunted him for many nights after he had fled London for Canada, which he had thought he had dealt with. 

“Stop right there!” a male voice loudly commanded.

And John complied—immediately regretting it.  A familiar face charged the few steps between them and suddenly was right up in his own, spitting mad.  “What the bloody hell have you been up to, John?!” Greg snapped, brown eyes furiously capped with silver brows, even though John could feel that the man was more relieved than angry.  “You scared the living piss out of Mrs. Hudson!  She’s been wringing her hands for weeks!  And I’ve had men out looking for you.  We were beginning to think you’d been done in—obviously not, I guess.  Damn,” he said, now softer, as he took John’s forearms into his hands with an iron grip that felt like he would never let go, “you look…great?”  It was a question. 

John could see those dark eyes searching his face and he tried not to make eye contact for too long. So, this had been what Louis had meant.  Meeting Lestrade was a thousand times more irritatingly uncomfortable than being forced back into Sherlock’s company.  Sherlock was a cock.  Lestrade was kind and worried and needed answers that John could not give him.   It didn’t take long for him to ask, “Care to enlighten me?”

John’s face gave a pinched smile.  This was the last thing that he wanted.  Why hadn’t he just run?  Lestrade would think he’d just have seen things.  Too late now.  “Hey, yeah…umm, I’m okay.  Been busy.” He replied, lamely. 

Lestrade gave him that— _don’t kid me, I’m a police inspector_ —look and John quickly licked his lips, amending with what he hoped was slightly more plausible.  “A case, I mean.  You know how it is.”

The inspector blinked blankly and gave a grating sigh, as he crossed his arms and challenged, “That’s about the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ‘eard since all this started.”

John grimaced and thought once more about just bookin’ it.  He dismissed the notion, knowing that it would only raise further suspicion.  Greg was no idiot and he was a good friend.  He would not give up.  He would dig until he got what he wanted, even if it took him a life time.  John decided to give half-truths.  “Look,” he sighed, lowering his voice, “It’s been difficult…and I can’t give you many of the details, but things haven’t gone as planned and…well, plans had to change.”

“No shit.” Greg responded, not accepting the null answer.  His strong boxed jaw was set, teeth ground together.  “Your place there with Mary…someone came after ya’, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, well,” John sighed and just decided to have out with it, “Mary’s dead.”

That shut the inspector up, even though it was probably one of the hardest things the soldier had had to come out with since admitting to his damned shrink that Sherlock was dead—which was a lie anyway—making it even more sour now.  The inspector responded as any caring friend would.  His brows wiggled with social regret, his eyes looking remorseful enough for the both of them, as his mind screamed condemnation for the blunder.  “Ah, damn.” Greg cursed, apologizing, “I’m so sorry, John.  Is there—?”

“It’s been covered up, Greg, and has to stay that way.” John began to lie, “I barely escaped and have been with protective services up until this point.  Sherlock is with me now and the governments trying to use us to get the people responsible.  It’s…well, it’s a case gone bad, is it what it is…and now we’re trying to fix it.”

Lestrade sputtered a couple of times, trying to come out with something to say before he gave up and just pressed his lips tight into a thin line.  John could hear the odd thought slip out.  The Inspector was ashamed, guilty, and empathetic of John’s plight, wished to hell he could help.  John licked his lips again and shrugged his shoulders, attempting to reassure his friend.  “There’s no nice way of looking at it, Greg.  It is what it is and we have to finish this before we can come back to Baker Street.  Mrs. Hudson could be in danger so…do me a favor, will ya, and keep an eye on her?”

The inspector gave an eager nod.  Yes, of course, explaining that he had already been doing that, and then John caught something else.  Something in the detective’s mind about a post card and the vampire was immediately wary.  “S-she hasn’t received any kind of…oh, I don’t know…correspondence of late, has she?”

Greg nodded, looking concerned and suspicious.  “Yeah, in fact, now that you mention it she did.” He admitted.  “Fuckin’ suspicious, if you ask me.”

John cursed under his breath.  He didn’t want to spend too much time with his old friend, now that he was—well, what he was—thank goodness he had just fed—but he also did not seem to have another option.  “Look, why don’t we slip in somewhere to discuss it further.” He paused and gave a wary look over his shoulder and then added in a hushed tone.  “Little too public out here.”

“Little bit.” Lestrade agreed, before hitching his thumb back over his shoulder.  “Know a quiet place block ova’.”

John followed his friend to small pub and after purchasing a couple of drinks, they settled into a darker alcove to talk.  John hoped the shadows would hide the some of the changes.  He really didn’t want to answer those questions. 

Greg didn’t look as great as the last time John had seen the inspector and that had been outside of the Baker Street flat, assessing the bloodied body on their door step.  He looked weary and worn out.  Too many late nights and cigarettes.  He smelled as such too.  The strong odor of the stale smoke and beer was overwhelming, making it hard for John to stay focused on acting human.  Again, Joh could hear Louis’ caution in his ear.  It only made him focus harder. 

Drawing his own beer closer to negate the familiar and unfamiliar smells of his friend, he tried not to make direct eye contact.  He knew already that Lestrade had noticed.  How could he not?  His damn eyes practically glowed for heaven’s sake.  Those brown eyes tracked his face and even slipped now and then up and down his body, as John caught the odd snippet of— _how’s he dun it?—_ coming from his mind.  The inspector wanted to know, feeling old and almost decrepit in comparison.

John moved to direct the conversation but Greg beat him to it, shaking his head and admitting, “I knew something was up.  I knew something had happened, I just…I couldn’t figure it out.” He looked contrite, almost stricken by his failure.  “I had a bunch of other crap going down, the Yard was busy, and Sherlock seemed as stumped as we all were—which was the scariest damned part of it.”

“You couldn’t have done anything, Greg.” John insisted, with a shrug.

“I just…it’s terrible, John,” He said, with a sad twist to his mouth, “them murderin’ Mary.  Just despicable.”

This is not where the vampire wished to dwell.  He was having enough time swallowing this information himself, he really didn’t need to regurgitate it with Greg here and now.  “More people are going to get hurt, Greg, if Sherlock doesn’t fix this.” John redirected, quickly adding, “What about Mrs. Hudson?”

“Right.  She gave me a call after she received a note from you,” he paused, and corrected, “at least what I believe was a note from you…?”

“Yeah, I didn’t want her to worry.  You know how she is.  I left that when I got back to London.” He explained, giving a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.

“Yeah, well, the note you had left her conflicted with a post card she had received in the mail prior.” The inspector continued, the deep timbre of his voice speaking like a true man of the Yard.  “It had said something about you and Mary takin’ off to—God, I can’t even remember, somewhere hot—because you’d had enough of Sherlock.  That part I could see.  He can be royal a ass.”

“That he most certainly can be.” John added. They both shared a laugh and John smiled for the first time since seeing the man.  Quickly, remembering his teeth, he closed his mouth a faked a drink from his cup. In his haste to cover up he moved a little too quickly and some of the froth from the head of the beer met with his upper lip.  The aroma was so strong that he nearly gagged as it flooded his system. In reflex, jerked back and the mug smacked back down against the table, sloshing out.  Embarrassed and concerned it may have been to much, John brought a hand up and pinched his nose, faking a sneeze. Quickly, he said, “Damn.  Spilled a bit.”

Greg shrugged and continued as if nothing had happened. “But it wasn’t in character.  You wouldn’t run off.  You’re more than capable of dealing with ‘im and I’m pretty sure Mary is,” he stopped and corrected, “was as well.”

John shook his head.  “Gotta’ be a ploy of some kind.” He surmised, which was likely true.  But who’s?

“Do you think they will hurt her?” Greg asked, “These bastards that went after ya’?  I can post extra guards on the block.”

It was a kind offer, but seemed like a waste of the Yard’s man power.  “I don’t think that it’s a threat.” John returned, “They want her to think that we are relocated, so they want her to think that us being away is normal.  It’s a cover for something else.”

“That’s what Sherlock had said, when I showed ‘im the card.  Said it was to placate the easily dissuaded.” Greg offered and John was surprised to hear it.  “But who are these people?  What do they want?”

John pressed his lips into a thin line.  He couldn’t come up with an answer, he still didn’t know who had attacked them in their home, who had killed Mary that awful night. He’d have to get that card.  It was the closest link he had to Mary’s killer.

“I’m sorry, Greg, but I can’t tell you.  We are not sure yet exactly who these people are and the government is involved.  There’s red tape everywhere.” John glossed over that part to stop any more questions.  He wanted to see that card.  “Do you happen to know where this card is now?”

Lestrade confirmed that Sherlock had discarded it, when he had shown it to him, and so John knew where he would be after this.  There really wasn’t much more he wanted to know then and he certainly wanted to avoid those other questions that he could hear in Lestrade’s mind—how much younger he looked, how good he looked, and why that was—so John gave the convenient excuse of not lingering in case it drew unwanted attention from his attackers to his friend and the two parted ways.  John left not completely unscathed.  Lestrade had pulled him in for a quick strong embrace, again repeating his apologies for what had happened to Mary, and gave John his word that he would watch over his land lady while he and Sherlock sorted out this mess. 

John thanked his friend and after a short walk down the street, took to the rooftops, quickly using his speed and agility to cross over to Baker Street.  Mrs. Hudson was unaware he was there and he did not find the post card in her flat.  He didn’t find it back upstairs in the other flat either.  Frustrated, he stole back into the night, heading for the safe house, hoping to hell that the detective was still there.

Surprisingly the man was. When John came into the parlor, he found the detective still handcuffed to the radiator and was consumed with laughter.  The reproachful glare he received in turn from under the lowered brows of his friend made the chuckling even louder.  John had thought for sure that the genius would have been out of those things and into mischief in five minutes flat.  This scene was completely unexpected and he could not help but find it hilarious.

“Oh, shut up, John!” the man demanded after a minute too long, “I am not Houdini.”

It was actually quite endearing to find the detective working regardless of his predicament.  Somehow he must have hooked the leg of the coffee table with his long limbs and dragged his impromptu work station closer, continuing his work cross legged on the floor with only one hand.  John was even more surprised to see that the detective was able to right damn near as well with his left hand as he was able to with his right, which was of no use fastened to the radiator.    He had also continued to smoke, the room and his person infused with the odor. 

His laughter stopped when he caught sight of what looked like a post card, ripped in two, amongst all of the other paper refuse that cluttered the coffee tables top.  Was that why the detective had gone back to the flat?  He was taking John’s request seriously after all.

“What have you come up with?” John asked, moving to the sofa and taking a seat.

Sherlock looked offended, scoffing waspishly, “You’re not going to undo this?  My hands gone numb. 

John shrugged and replied very simply, “Depends on what you’ve accomplished, I guess, now doesn’t it?”

This glare was just about as satisfying as the first. It took only fractions of a second to ascertain that further requests were pointless and instead the detective focused on pouring out his current deductions. Yes, the postcard was obviously rubbish, a lame attempt to cover up the disappearance of John and Mary. The card-stock was inconsistent with those available in the region it was supposed to have originated from and had been printed somewhere in the greater UK and very likely, London proper. Mary herself was a harder egg to crack. Sherlock had little new information on who she was prior to becoming Mary Morstan. Her murder had been a significantly well planned hit, the clean-up had taken place the same evening. The clean-up crew were highly proficient, in and out with everything in less than 3 hours and without disturbing or rousing neighbors. Some of whom were beginning their morning rituals just as the last of the ‘crew’ locked up and vacated the scene.

 All of this had been pulled together through hacked CCTV footage from near-by private and public cameras. None of which gave a clear enough shots to be of any help in identifying individuals, of which there had been three, likely two men and one woman based of the little Sherlock was able use. They had been little more than useless black blurbs in far away and grainy footage. Only one vehicle was identified to be involved and it was, as suspected, a black utility van entirely devoid of license or useful markings.

During his little outing he had also returned to the scene and did another sweep in the unlikely event that he had missed something. He was unfortunately, not surprised to find nothing more of use than he had during his original search. The carpet that had been replaced registered no sales for months at any of the retailers whom supplied it, the old one hadn’t been haphazardly disposed of anywhere. The vase was too common and without a face, there was no point in searching sales transactions from that week.

While the brunette sat on the floor, one hand flippantly gesturing while he rattled off his findings and process, John sat patiently and listed. The connection between them was tangible and he felt as if he was there, running through the stops on each leg of his investigation. Then delving into passages of the mind palace where Sherlock had to dig deeper into his own psyche in order to review, analyze and conclude.

When Sherlock started suddenly on the particulars of Mary’s missing corpse, John had to stop him. The luster of the case gone and the reality again struck him that this wasn’t just another case. This was the murder of his love, of his Mary, of the woman he had planned to make his wife. Despite having not known about her, still secret, past.

“John, I—“ Sherlock began.

“Stop. Just—just give me a minute.”  John stood, not making eye contact and walked out of the room.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting out his indignation at being left, still cuffed to the radiator and tried very hard to perform a feat of empathy for his friend. He had less and less compassion for the murdered woman who had occupied John’s heart, as he continued to struggle with discovering whom she had been prior and what had led to her being targeted.

 John returned after only a few moments had passed, his eyes flashing up from the carpet to meet Sherlock’s with a look of resolve, unsuccessfully masking the discomfort he was feeling. The consulting detective genuinely did not feel any remorse for his clinical recounting of the facts and his findings. In fact, his mentality was the sooner John finished his mourning of the belated woman, the better. She had lied to John, the reasons not yet determined but it was unlikely for noble purposes that she had assumed a new identity. This was something that frustrated Sherlock, that he hadn’t caught on sooner to the façade of the woman and it only contributed to his impatience in making allowances for John’s emotional reaction.

The bright and unnaturally reflective eyes seemed to penetrate Sherlock, as John stopped in front of him. Without skipping a beat the shackled hand rose with a clang of the handcuffs sliding along the pipe, the maximum reach achieved.

“Have I sufficiently earned my freedom, then?” Sherlock asked, elegant dark eyebrow arched behind the unruly bangs. When John failed to respond Sherlock executed his best ‘woe is me’ look and John scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, I suppose.” There was a pause at Sherlock’s unrestrained glee at the prospect of release until John continued. “On the condition—“ Sherlock scowled. “That you actually listen to me next time.”

Sherlock almost blurted out a platitude just to garner his release but when John’s eyes narrowed on him, piercing him with a look that clearly stated he knew exactly what the detective was thinking, the man gave a long grating sigh of resignation.

The vampire gave his hostage a patronizing smirk, with just a hint of fang, as he reminded the genius, “That’s right. I actually can tell when you’re lying to me now, so don’t bother. You either mean it or you can bloody well stay there until you figure out how to get yourself out of it.” John’s arms crossed over his chest.

“Fine. Yes.” Sherlock conceded.  His tone was churlish and earned the detective a disappointed look from the vampire, prompting him to add, “I am not a pet, John. If you want me to work the case, then I need to be allowed to do so.”

“I get that.” John answered back. “And that being as it is, I’m not interested one lick in being your bloody keeper but at least agree that if I ask you to not bugger off when I can’t help you, you’ll listen next time.”

“I already agreed, what else do I need to do? Sign a contract? Sell my soul?” Sherlock was being a shit and he knew it.

John tossed the small silver key down to the man at his feet and turned away, his own frustration causing him to ball up his fists. Nails dug into his palms, as the immortal reminded himself that although he could easily kill the insolent man, he was trying to prevent that.  He tried to remember that Sherlock was still his friend, despite being a royal arse.

“John?” Just the sound of the consulting detective’s voice made John lose his cool, certain of another smart-ass comment.

“ _What_?!” John spat, whirling to look at the man.

“This is not the correct key.” Sherlock looked unimpressed.

“What do you mean? That’s the only key I could find.” The blond suddenly realized he may have acted a little hasty in his punishment of the man stuck to the radiator. “Bollocks.”

After scouring the home unsuccessfully John finally had to work at breaking the lock by hand and not crushing Sherlock’s wrist in the process. It took the better part of a half hour—made evening longer by the detective’s constant nagging review of each failed attempt—and by the end of it the two men needed a break from one another’s company. The break was short, enough time for a wash up and a clothing refresh and then they were back at the consulting detective impromptu work station, pouring over the remainder of his findings. With Sherlock purposefully choosing to forego his theories on the disposal of Mary’s body for the time being.

Of the Talmasca, he had little new information. The organization was old, possibly pre-anno domini but there was no way to tell. There seemed to be factions all over the world from what he could tell, operating under different names but the concept of the secret society seemed similar enough to connect them together. Especially with the loose information he had with respect to the unproven history of the vampires themselves. He had once more skimmed the various vampire chronicles for information regarding the group, but had little success stomaching the romanticized ‘fiction’ in order to pull facts for verification.

 Once everything was out and an uncomfortable silence had descended, the two men looked at one another and tried to reason what their next step should be. This was broken by the unceremonious rumbling of the consulting detectives gut. It was pretty clear that it was time to feed and water the human.

 

***

 

"Shall we walk or call a cab?" Sherlock asked, as he pulled his coat up over his shoulders.

John gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders, as the detective noted that the vampire seemed unconcerned about grabbing a jacket.  He was busy deducing exactly how the temperature effected his kind, as they headed out the door, when John responded, "There ought to be something close by."

Sherlock produced a cigarette, like a magician pulling a scarf from some unknown hiding place.  He lit it quickly and took a quick drag.  "Let's grab a cab.” He reaffirmed, after a long puff, “I could stand to speak with Angelo and a few others from my homeless network—," Sherlock was suggesting when he was abruptly cut off.

"Not a good idea, I'm afraid." John cut in, informing his friend, "I've been advised that it would be best not to interact with people I knew...well, before.  We can go somewhere here."

"Well, that's completely ridiculous.  You've already interacted with individuals from your past, myself included." Sherlock answered dismissively.  He took another pull on the fag, let it sit in his lungs, and then blew it out in a woof of breath. "If you want to reintegrate into society John, you're going to have to.  Besides, you've already met with Lestrade this evening and he certainly knows you better than anyone at Angelo's."

John frowned at the detective and Sherlock took his silence as a means of room to make his case.  Rubbing his wrist, knowing John would be remorseful of the growing bruise, he took his time explaining, "I have my homeless network on the look out for anything relevant to our case and I would like to check in with one of my contacts in the area.  Angelo's is by far the best environment for you to practice integrating.  He knows you only marginally in comparison to some of your other closest friends and relatives and he is busy running a a resturant.  He will give you a double take, comment on how well you look, and then mention nothing further.  I am sure that will be less than what Lestrade was thinking when he ran into you this evening."

John's frown deepened into more of a scowl, but underlying it Sherlock knew that the vampire was considering this well.  He knew his point was valuable—Sherlock did not waste his time basing an argument on a point that wasn’t of value.  The restaurant was also one of the few places in the city that he relatively could stand eating at that was open this late on a weekday.

"Fine, fine." John groused, with a shake of his head.  He pointed a warning finger at the detective, adding succinctly, "But we take a cab."

"Surely you could get us there faster." Sherlock suggested, as the cigarette returned to his lips, now half gone.

"Yes, alright?  Yes, I could.  But am I willing to?  No." the vampire snapped, "So, stop thinking about it.  I can't fly!  I'm not Superman."

"Well, if you wish for me to understand exactly what it is you are capable of than you should show me." 

"No." John enforced, unable to hide the hint of an amused smile growing at the corner of his mouth.  "We can take a bloody cab, like normal people."

"That's an absurdity, John.  That simply isn't true. “Sherlock stated.  "We both know we are far more advanced than normal people." 

John smiled then.  That old, _I can't help it_ , smile and Sherlock smiled back, thoroughly satisfied with what his own cleverness had achieved.  The moment passed a little too quickly for the detective’s liking.

Sherlock kept his mind of John as they walked, assessing everything that he could as they moved.  His gate, his tred, his body language, his skin and hair under the lamp light, under the moonlight.  Fascination wasn't the word for it.  He was intensely interested in studying everything that was now _his_ John.  So different and still so much the same.  His body burned to be close to the man and yet also ached to be so far away from knowing him.  John was guarded himself, trying to keep himself removed from completely giving in to any interaction with him.  Sherlock wondered if it was simply that the vampire's concentration was on appearing mortal or if it was strictly to keep him from knowing and exploring.  

John had never liked to be analyzed.  It was why he had struggled so terribly with the psychiatric appointments he had been through before meeting with the detective.  But even those he had come to terms with, had realized were helpful even though he loathed them, and was why he had returned after Sherlock's fake death.  Sherlock wished that John would submit to his curiosity.  Allow him to study the new form that he inhabited, to understand it.  But it seemed the vampire never would and the detective was beginning to think he understood why.

It was the last thing that Sherlock wanted to admit was his friend's reasoning, but bit by bit he was realizing there was little other recourse.  John thought of this association as temporary.  A means to finding out what he wished to know so that he could then move forward in this new life, find a footing, and a means to existing as he was.  John always had needed closure.  Mary's death was no different. Simply knowing that she was dead was not enough.  He needed to know why.

Sherlock could identify with the reasoning, he just hated to be put as means to that end.  No matter how he looked at the relationship between them, he cringed to think that it would remain only temporary.  

"Stop thinking." John said, with a visible wince.  He pinched the bridge of his nose, as they walked.

"Does the transfer cause you pain?" Sherlock asked, curious.

"It's just...annoying." John replied, taking his hand away.  "You're thoughts are so fast and furious.  It's worse than a machine gun barrage over head."

"I'm afraid that stopping is not the answer you're looking for." Sherlock said, gesturing to his own head.  "I cannot stop thinking and I am unable to in any way turn it down or slow it down.  It's the natural way I process things."

John gave a resigned sigh, as though he were exhausted.  Perhaps he was.   _A side effect of the thought absorption or is it something else?_

"I get that.  It's just frustrating." John said, "It's new."

"New?" Sherlock questioned, the arch of one brow cocking.  If John was answering his questions he wasn't going to stop.  "So it does not happen with other people?"

John shrugged his shoulders.  "It does but it's not the same.  I can hear only bits and pieces, here and there." he said, as he mimicked turning a dial with his fingers, "You have to tune into it, if you want a clear sound."

"And my thoughts pass to you coherently, then." the detective ascertained.

"Coherently isn't the word that I would use to describe it." John said, with a small smile.  "Your thoughts are loud, fast, and they layer up over top of one another until it's just a blaring noise.  I can't concentrate or think myself when you get into something that you're really working on."

"And that can be painful?"

"It's hard to take.  I feel like my mind is going to crack open it's filled up so damn fast." John said.  "Something like a migraine might feel like."

"Curious." Sherlock mused, as he considered that Lestat had obviously not been able to receive information from him and that possibly that was the reason for the piercing sting that had accompanied to blonde’s presence now and than before.

"Wait, what?" John stuttered, stopping.  Sherlock came to a stop and turned to face the vampire.  "You mean, Lestat couldn't read your thoughts?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded, admitting, "I am fairly certain that he tried upon numerous occasions but I can confidently say that he was unsuccessful, yes."

"Huh," his friend replied, before starting to walk again.  

Sherlock walked beside the vampire, now more invested in his inquiring than ever.  "Do all of your kind have the ability to read humans thoughts?" he asked.  The books had led him to believe that most could but not all.  Sherlock was more so looking for John’s understanding of the gift.

John scoffed and gave him a sneer askance, as he rebutted, "I'm still human, Sherlock, just a different kind."

That wasn’t the end Sherlock was looking for. The last thing he needed to do was to insult John into clamming up again. "Mortals than, if you so prefer." Sherlock quickly amended.

John shrugged, picking up the pace a bit.  Perhaps he was growing uncomfortable with how much was being said.  Sherlock had a hard time comfortably matching pace with the man, even given his longer stride.  "From what I’ve been told, vampires come with different gifts and abilities.  There's a range in strength and power that has something to do with blood line and immortal age.  The older one gets the stronger.  If the vampire that makes you is powerful, you may have some of the same powers.  Something like that anyway."

"And Lestat is one of the most powerful?" the detective asked.  The books had laid this out plainly for any reader, but many had been written by the devil himself and give the creature’s insatiable need to gloat, it clouded the clarity of the fact.

"Something like that." John countered, "I'm not really sure on the specifics, but according to Louis he's not someone to be trifled with.  He was short on those kinds of details."

"You spent a long time with Louis," Sherlock surmised, "may I ask what you were doing?"

"Learning to not kill indiscriminately out of hunger." John snapped, giving his friend a bit of a glare.  "We didn't focus much on the history of vampirism.  I learned how to coincide, to blend in, to not be noticed.  It's a lot more difficult than you think."

"I can only imagine." Sherlock replied, honestly, "Explain it to me."

John raised his arm over his head, signaling a cab much too Sherlock's chagrin.  In a quiet voice, the vampire replied, "You don't wanna' know."

The cab pulled over and they got in.  Sherlock was met with silence until they reached Angelo's and he cursed every minute of it.  John, as it seemed, was no longer talking.  

They spent the next hour in the restaurant.  Sherlock ordered and ate, while John mimicked drinking a cup of coffee.  The detective was surprised to see that the vampire was able to make the liquid slowly decrease in the cup without even his trained eyes catching how.  It was easy to see that a near by plant was receiving the unwanted portion but not how it was getting there.  

John didn't answer anymore of his questions, although he did try, and he eventually gave in, recognizing this was neither the time nor the place to be investigating the vampire.  He focused instead on the case at hand, knowing John would be more receptive to that. Still he talked little and Sherlock realized that his shifting gaze was only evidence of one thing: his discomfort.  John was focused on being there, in that moment, amongst all the other patrons and restaurant staff, appearing as them, as a mortal, as normal as they all were bland.  Sherlock could see now at length the concentration and effort put into this task and was respectful of it.  After all, it was important to John.

Before they left, he had made a few inquiries with Angelo and asked for a few favors.  The man had a criminal history and with it always came certain contacts that one generally kept, in case of emergency.  He received nothing new that he didn't already know and when they were finished, he sought out his homeless network contact to check in with her.

John remained behind but close enough to ensure that he would be at the ready should something unexpected happen. There was a brief moment when he became aware that Sherlock was considering ‘making a run for it’ just to test John’s ability to track him. The thought was just as quickly dismissed, much to the vampires’ relief, when it was followed by the recollection that John had access to his thoughts and so, now already knew of the idea.

When the two men met up at the designated location a few blocks away from the consulting detective’s connection, John’s expression was enough for Sherlock to confirm his deduction was correct. The connection that the two men shared was fascinating but it was also going to be troublesome. The consulting detective required his privacy, not that John was an intruder but there were things that he really did not care to have John know. About his past or about his thoughts and so he had to build mental blocks for himself to keep from his mind revealing more than he was wishing.

Keeping things as focused on the case as possible was the best bet. Unfortunately his homeless network did not have a whole lot of information to add to that which they already knew. There was a curious matter with an individual asking a lot of questions about him, trying to infiltrate or gather information from his own informants. Some young woman, in her twenties with long black hair and a story how she was another hard luck case who lost everything. Claiming that she wanted to meet Sherlock so he could help her find her missing child. It warranted looking into and so Sherlock had told his connection to message him next time she showed up.

Beyond that information, his connections had nothing of much use. Mycroft was seen about town with a strange new companion—David—Sherlock reasoned easily. There was no news of Mary. Despite John’s best attempts to stay under the wire, he had been spotted around town as well.

John listened to the regurgitated information as the two men walked down the quiet London street and John worked on dulling the sound of Sherlock’s mind, focusing instead on simply listening to the words. The task was not as easy as it had been with any other mortal minds and as nice as it was to keep a handle on the man it was something he needed to learn to control for as long as he would need to remain with the consulting detective. Once he had dealt with Mary’s killer and then Moriarty, John had no intentions of staying anywhere near his old lover. Not just because of the mental link between them, but because he didn’t trust Sherlock and more importantly, he didn’t yet trust himself.

“John.” Sherlock looked at John with a bored expression.

“What is it?” The reply sounded lame, he had been caught day dreaming about what sort of horrible idea it would be to stay with Sherlock and continue to work cases.

“I assumed you were in charge of this little outing, seeing as I am not to leave your company. I’ve ran my errands in this area of town, I have one other connection to meet with but we will need a taxi or… other means.” Sherlock was strongly hinting that he wanted John to flex some of his vampirical powers but it only served to remind John of exactly what he would have to put up with, if he was daft enough to stay in London.

Instead he hailed a taxi, much to Sherlocks disappointment.


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

 

 

 

This tree bore less fruit than the first had and eventually the two men returned to Armand’s safe-house. John pensively watched Sherlock mull over all the clues they had collected, trying to see where they may have missed a lead or connection. He finally went out on his own for an hour, early in the morning, prior to dawn. Sherlock knew by the complexion and shameful look on John’s face at his observation, that John had gone out to feed.  That was twice in one evening, unusual up until this point.  Sherlock was contemplating why this might be—stress was the most likely factor, although his gut rooted strongly for lust—when the vampire brusquely repeated his rules and disappeared through the heavily secured door that lead to the chambers below the house.

The detective felt rather like a child being given bedtime rules.  He shook of the swarming indignation by returning to his work.

The brunet focused on the case while the pink and amber hues began to fill the room and birds sang their waking little melodies. He even made a fresh pot of coffee and took an occasional cigarette break out on the stoop to tweak his mental alertness.  Two full hours after the sun had officially risen the detective was bored.  He left the work and set to the task of hacking the code on the pinpad that secured the safe room that withheld the vampire in his deathly slumber.

The pinhole camera that he had mounted in order to see the key sequence was not as much use as he would have liked, the footage was choppy and the movements of John’s fingers had been too unnaturally fast. Not to mention the technology on the door was some of the most sophisticated he had ever seen.

It took Sherlock four hours and thirty-nine minutes to finally hear the satisfying hiss of hydraulics releasing on the door. With an eager hand the detective reached out, gripping the handle as a blinding scorch of pain and heat sent him smashing into the wall behind him and immediately knocked the man unconscious.

Two hours later the consulting detective work up, sore, hand burnt where it had grabbed the electrified handle. He was groggy for a few minutes, then impressed, and then disappointed in himself for getting cocky. He went about figuring out and dismantling a few more booby-traps that secured the safe room for the vampire and by the time Sherlock was able to confidently take his first step into the lower flat he had less than an hour and a half left until sunset. The entire lower section of the home seemed to be a massive open concept den and bedroom. There was a low warm light that lit the entire level and travelled up behind bookshelves and from recessed lights. The bed itself was massive and against the farthest wall where the body of John lay prone and motionless in its center.

The scene was no different than he might have expected.  John looked perfectly peaceful. Sherlock had seen the man numerous times within the comfort of his own bed, sometimes in the comfort of his bed, however, here the vampire was quieter and more still than the man had ever been—than any man would be.  He was like a statue, a rock, unmoving and silent.  

The detective wanted to rush to examine the strange slumber of the immortal and yet his mind blared _'caution!'_.  John's own warning echoed in his mind, words not to go unheeded.  The words alone had been poignant but John himself had truly feared what he could be capable of, even in this unconscious state, as he truly appeared to be.  

Sherlock watched the body from afar at first, thinking as he did so what John could have been so fearful of.  Had he experienced such a reaction to being disturbed when sleeping, an instinctual need for the body to protect itself that defied all human logic?  He surely seemed helpless, utterly without life, so still in the needless blankets of the large bed.  The man had little way of testing this theory on his person, he had come into the basement without anything, and he trusted John's fearfulness enough to ward off his need and want to rush to the body, to touch with his own hands.  

The room was not unadorned.  It was fashioned as anyone might expect a bedroom to be, with the odd touch of the owner's personality here and there throughout.  To his immediate left there was shelf and dresser, carved out of the finest mahogany and capped with a gleaming marble top that spoke of the owner's intense desire for the richness of the world.  On the dresser there was a small wooden box, carved intricately with various flowers and intermingling vines, dotted here and there with emeralds and topaz.  Sherlock opened it and dumped out the contents, raucously spilling chains, bracelets, and rings into a pile on the hard cold marble.  Then he turned back to John.

The vampire had not moved.  He was still curled slightly into the fetal position, as John had always preferred.  One hand was tucked under the pillow, slightly cradling the head, and the other, although unseen below the blankets, Sherlock knew was between his knees.  The sounds he had made had not hindered the immortal’s slumber in the least.  He tried harder, tapping the wooden box on the marble top.  Still nothing.  He banged the wooden box louder, the sound echoing throughout the room.  Nothing.  

The detective called the vampire's name, loud and clear to the same effect.  He shouted the name, with still no change.  Then he brought his arm back in yank-perfect wind up and threw the box at the body in the bed, as hard as he could.  

There was a loud clap and then the box shot back towards the pitcher at rocket speed. The man barely ducked in time, as it smashed into the wall, breaking the drywall and splintering into three or four pieces.  It was hard to say if he had physically seen what had happened or not.  His eyes had observed no movement from the bed, but the evidence was clear enough.  The bed covers were moved, slightly pushed down, the top arm now exposed, and then there was the simple fact that the box had clearly been volleyed back, hit in mid air as it traveled towards its target.  The box was in several pieces from both impacts and yet John himself did not seem disturbed.  He was still as a corpse, his eyes closed and his mouth reposed.  

"Interesting..." Sherlock mused, as he searched for something else to throw.

His first object had been large enough to be considered a potential threat of harm so his next thought was to see if smaller items would have the same reaction. He selected an ornate golden ring set with a large marquise ruby, easily worth thousands. Winding up again he pitched the ring and was immediately rewarded with being knocked to the ground, as the small solid object hit him forcefully in the adam’s apple. The consulting detective hit the floor, choking and coughing. Tears welled in his eyes and he gulped for air like a stranded fish, as his fingers attempted to asses the damage to his wind-pipe. The ring had clattered to the ground and sat innocently on the floor in front of him between his knee's as he slowly regained his composure and wheezed his way back to his feet.

That was enough throwing objects, already John's words of warning had proven true. John was in the same state of repose from the first time he had deflected the assault Sherlock was launching. The consulting detective left the basement after a few moments of consideration and returned quickly with a broom acquired from a cleaning closet, a wooden tiki mask he had plucked from a wall, and a pair of leather gloves that he had brought with him. The mask was likely unnecessary but it would offer some level of protection to his face and throat should things fly back his way again. Gloves on, mask pulled down over his face and broom in hand the detective cautiously approached the sleeping form of the vampire that was John.

Glaring warning signals were going off in his brain, instinct demanded he leave the highly dangerous creature alone, but the scientific mind demanded that he utilize the little time remaining to determine what he could. The risk was a necessity for the greater understanding of John’s vulnerability in this state. It would help him determine what the threat of disturbing the vampire was, how well the creature could defend itself on its own, and some of the instinctual reactions of the transformation on the man. Sherlock gaged first the maximum extension of his reach with the broom and then cautiously moved towards to foot of the bed, not trusting the distance provided by coming along side the creature. With a deep inhalation, he slowly extended half of his maximum reach out and touched the edge of the broom head to the footboard on the bed.

Nothing.

With John's positioning, his feet were currently about a meter from the bed. Sherlock retracted the broom and took a stride closer to the bed and again slowly extended his reach, this time the head of the broom lingered over the horizon of the footboard for a hesitant moment before he extended the head of the broom closer to the feet beneath the covers. His breath was shallow and his pulse was racing. He was nervous. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose as he neared the head of the broom within a foot of the sleeping form.

Suddenly the handle flew out of his hand, twisting his wrist as it was knocked violently away. A terrifying snarl reverberated in his ear drums that sent his nerves alight flight adrenaline. Sherlock staggered back, unbalanced by the blow.  The mask fell over his eyes and he fell hard on his arse. He scrambled away from the bed anticipating an attack that did not come. After the shock was digested and the mask tossed off his face, he could see that John was as peaceful looking as before though his position had changed. The blanket had been tossed mostly onto the floor at one side of the bed, the broom was laying against a wall where it had knocked down a painting.

"Approximately 12 inches. Interesting." He muttered to himself rubbing his sore wrist.

He decided the mask was useless in this venture and took back up the broom for a few more proximity tests, loosening his grip so as to not cause himself injury. The room and it's contents were not as fortunate.  After several more successful tests with the broom, Sherlock was fairly confident that he had fully mapped the vampire’s reflexive actions, response time, and sphere. His time, however, was up. Th detective went about setting the room back as best he could. The jewelry was swept into a drawer haphazardly, the painting was re-hung, broken glass swept with the-now-broken-broom and Sherlock gave one last inspection prior to leaving the vampire’s room, fairly pleased with his findings thus far and eager to continue the next evening.

***

"You buggar!" John snapped, as he came upon the detective sitting at the table in the kitchen. It was obviously a new designated work space.

Sherlock refrained from looking up from the papers, laptop, and folders in front of him on the table.  All the vampire got in the way of a response, was a quickly mumbled, "Good evening to you too."

John was having none of it.  He had been infuriated to wake and find himself uncovered, a clear indicator as to just what had gone on while he had slept in the supposedly 'safe room'.  He grabbed the back of the detectives chair and spun the man to face him.  Sherlock was surprised by the sudden movement of his seat but not by the vampire’s irritation. In defiance the man crossed his arms and huffed, "Calm down, John."

"You are the single most selfish man I have ever had the rotten pleasure of putting up with." the vampire spat waspishly, his fangs bared, and his grit teeth.  "You just had to, didn't you?  You couldn't just leave me be!  I know you were down there, what the hell were you doing?"

Sherlock's smirk deserved to be slapped off of his smug face, but the vampire resisted the temptation, knowing that his anger was running away with his senses. He was too close.  A waft of the man’s delicious scent filled his nostrils.  Mingled with the sound of his beating heart and the blood pumping through his veins, John’s mouth began to salivate, drumming up the memory of the detective’s blood on his palate before he had ever had a taste or a desire for it. He let go of the chair and the front legs slammed to the floor, nearly bucking the man out of it.  John turned and took a step away, only to have the detective's hand on his bicep, attempting to keep him there.  The vampire spun away from the contact and pushed a warning finger up at the man's face, as he hissed, "Don't touch me!"

Sherlock raised his hands in a plaintive posture, asking for some reason from his friend and time to explain.  "There is no need to yell, John, I’m right here. Your volume is piercing. "

John bit his bottom lip and brought a hand up to give his face a cleansing swipe.  How loud had he been already?  He took a deep breath and let it out, as the detective diplomatically explained, "If you knew that I had been there, than you know very well what I was doing, and for your information, I have verified all I need to know of your day slumber."

John looked up at the man skeptically.  He had to admit that behind all of the offense and indignation there was a sliver of interest making itself known.  Still, he wasn't about to let the detective have the satisfaction of knowing it just yet— _ah, hell, the bloody genius probably knows already!_  "What the hell happened then?" John snapped, irritably.

"What I expected to have happen, based on your fear and caution regarding the matter." Sherlock stated, too dismissively to give John any real kind of satisfaction.  

"What happened, Sherlock?" John repeated in a quieter, more plaintive tone.

Sherlock's mouth curled at the corner, as their eyes met for the first time without anger for the other.  "It really was quite fascin—interesting." Amending his statement at the last moment did seem to calm John.  "After garnering access to the room, which really was quite difficult, even for myself, I came upon you in the bed in a state of what appeared to be unconsciousness.  You were very still and you did not respond to audible stimuli."

John was genuinely interested now.  He knew that he was mostly incapacitated and therefore had not experienced Louis' slumber during their time together.  

"You did however respond to what I would refer to as a threat stimuli." Sherlock continued.

The vampire's eye blinked a couple times, as he interrupted, "A threat stimuli?  What did you do?"

"I kept myself at what I had ascertained was a safe distance and I threw various sized objects in the direction of your form in the bed." Sherlock answered, "And you deflected both projectiles with perfect accuracy and a fair amount of force, even though your body, to the human eye, seemed to remain incapacitated.  I deduce from your questioning that you have no recollection of the incident?"

John shrugged and admitted, "None whatsoever."

"Then how were you aware that I had been in the room at all?" the detective volleyed back.  "I did spare quite some time to cleaning up the fact."

John's mouth gave the detective a wry smile and the vampire took a step forward, coming into the man's space, as he lowered his voice and answered, "I could smell you."

Sherlock did not move.  This was quite possibly the closest John had willing come to him without some ulterior motive of restraining or removing him.  The answer was clear enough and he had not thought to remove his scent from the room, nor did he have any means of doing so.  As he was lost in this contemplation, he felt a hand come to the collar of his dress shirt.  As their eyes met yet again, John quietly asked, "May I?", as his fingers hovered over the top button.

Sherlock gave a nod and then quickly felt the fingers flick the button apart, a cold touch moving the collar back, as John inspected his neck and the bruise there.  John's thumb ran lighter than a feather over his adam’s apple, as the vampire asked, "Is that all that happened?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning slightly away from the touch, as he admitted, "I was hit by one of the deflected projectiles, but it is of no consequence."

John chuckled, "I guess you bloody well deserved that."

Sherlock glared askance at the vampire and shrugged, "The experiment still effective."

"Please don't refer to it as an experiment, Sherlock." John reprimanded, shaking his head, "I don't need to be reminded that I am nothing more than an experiment to you."

"There is no use hiding from me what you are, John." Sherlock insisted, with a frustrated wave of his arms, "I am perfectly aware.  It is of no benefit to you to hide any of this.  You should embrace it."

"Embrace it?!" John demanded, his face registering indignation at the very thought.

"You have little choice, John." Sherlock reminded him, curtly, "It is not something that can be reverted or undone.  You are what you are now and you are still alive because of it.  You have to at some point accept what you have become.  Trying to keep this from me is a complete waste of our time and it is only interfering with your desire to find Mary's murderer."

John went silent at this.  His eyes went to the floor, contemplating what had been said.  Sherlock could see that it was not easy to swallow and yet was relieved to note that John was trying.  He stepped closer, his hands coming up to take the other man's biceps.  John's eyes flashed up at him and Sherlock tried to give his lover a soothing reassurance, "We will find them, John, I promised you that.  But all of this fighting is getting us no where.  It is of more benefit to the both of us if we can fully understand one another, our limitations, and our potentials.  You have many gifts granted to you because of this change.  It is not all detrimental."

John nodded, taking a deep breath.  

"We should use this to our advantage." Sherlock reinforced.  

John nodded his head again, "Yes, alright," he said, before stepping apart from the detective.  

"Besides," Sherlock said, "I also discovered that this instinctual reaction you seem to have to protect yourself during this state is only active within a twelve-inch radius of your body."

John smirked at him and commented, "You dared get that close? 

Sherlock wished to be so much closer, but that thought he had to clear entirely from his mind.  He set about locking it up in his mind palace in a place where he was fairly confident it would stay hidden from his connection with John.  “Once projectiles were deflected the next logical step was to see what the threat radius was.” Sherlock explained sounding bored, turning his back on John and spreading his hands on the kitchen table over his collection of papers.

“You will need a new broom.” He added casually.

John took a deep breath and stared at the back of the man who was now pouring his focus into the items in front of him. The picture of one at work over a difficult task and despite the new surroundings it felt almost like old times at Baker Street. He took pains to let the moment linger and Sherlock’s truth about their situation settle.

There was no point to hiding his nature from the man. This man knew him and knew almost everything that had happened. He was in fact, one of the only people who did, who could know because now he had a very important reason to be private. Refusing to get caught on introspection of what his world would now look like, John instead walked around to the opposite side of the kitchen table. Crossing his arms over his chest he glanced over all collection of papers, scraps, notes, photos and the like.

“Well, did you actually get anywhere or did breaking into my room and tormenting me take up most of your day?” John asked. His tone was a half annoyance and a half amusement.

Sherlock’s eyes were shaded under the veil of the dark lashes, as he tipped his head up from the table and cracked a wry smile up at John. The look was far more sexual than the man had any idea of being aware of and the vampire swallowed hard.

“In fact that did take up the majority of my effective time but I did manage to pull some information together regarding this group of ‘watchers’ that Mary was supposedly a part of. There are a few locations that are consistent in my cross referencing of events, which reported to have involved creatures or paranormal activity that this group would be interested in.” Sherlock looked tired as he stood up. He planted his hands on his hips and twisted from side to side, cracking his back.

“You think these watchers are just going to be hanging out there? Waiting for something to happen?” John asked dubiously. It earned the vampire a suffering look from the brunet.

“No, John.” Sherlock bit his tongue, holding back a stinging comment, “but it is a place to start until we hear from Mycroft regarding the information he promised us. Besides, should one of the Talmasca be in the vicinity, you will be able to locate them by scanning the minds of those near by.”

“Err… It’s not that easy, Sherlock.” John rubbed the back of his neck, as he followed the taller man out of the kitchen and towards the entry.

“I don’t see why not.” Sherlock answered back over his shoulder. He snatched his coat from the hook by the door and slipped into it with all his usual flourish, donning his scarf and popping his collar like a rock star. John took his own black jacket in hand and followed the man out the door.

“It’s different with you. You, I have a hard time tuning out. I can always pick you up—not that it always makes sense, mind you.” John struggled to explain with a complexity that he knew Sherlock wanted. “There are lots of people who I can’t read at all, others where I hear everything. If I’m in a crowd of people and all I get is static and noise. Gives me a bloody headache.” John was pouring out the information, accepting there was no point in not telling him now.  The detective need to know his limits and restrictions if they were to utilize John’s new powers.

Sherlock had been walking confidently forward down the street, not looking back at John. His companion followed him as obedianty as he ever had, trusting whatever plan the detective may have, that was until Sherlock came to a complete stop.  John stopped to and the genius whirled back around to face him, staring at him with an intense look of concentration creasing his brow and the corners of his eyes.

_Call us a taxi, Call us a taxi._ The mantra popped into John’s mind, clear as if the man’s mouth was moving. The vampire’s lips formed pursed. He thought for a second about verbalizing his response and then shot back to the detective, purely through thought targeted for the Detective to hear him. _Call one your damned self!_

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Fascinating!” he exclaimed.

John rolled his eyes and took out his mobile, called a taxi. When the car arrived they climbed in beside one another.  Sherlock spouted off an address to the cabby that John didn’t recognized. It wasn’t a long trip but the fifteen minutes felt far too long, as the two men continued to attempt a telepathic conversation. It was neither simple nor easy. It was mentally exhausting. Yet they were able to make a connection and that alone was exciting. By the time the cabby had stopped they had discovered that the trick would work well for simple communications. More complex information got lost or garbled, like a game of ‘telephone’.

Sherlock would try to picture a scene in his mind and John would be able to pick it up but it lacked any detail.  It was fuzzy, like a heavy lens blur was being used. While Sherlock could not read any of what John was thinking, the vampire could project a thought or images into Sherlock’s mind with some work. This was even more broken and hard on both parties. John felt mentally tired by the end of it and his thirst was beginning to build to an unboreable level, when Sherlock’s mobile lit up with a call from Mycroft.

It was the perfect timing. Sherlock took the call, while he went about finding his evenings meal. Thankfully the area of town where their first stop was located was also not a good neighborhood and there was no shortage of villains who were more than deserving of a permanent punishment for their wrong doings.

Sherlock requested to watch, was denied, pouted, and then reluctantly went about his call. John disappeared down a dark passage. He was back at the consulting detective’s side less than twenty minutes later and was given Mycroft’s update. There was a rogue group within this Talmasca group that may have been responsible for Mary’s demise. Not much to go on when they couldn’t even find the original group.

What they did have going in their favor was that the rogue group, although secretive, had taken it upon themselves to act on findings and interact willingly with creatures they were supposed to strictly observe. The information seemed to point towards the group interfering with supernatural creature’s whom harbored ill intentions for the general public, but that was strictly conjecture. They would have a far better chance of interacting with a member of this group rather than the original faction and if they were responsible for Mary’s demise then it would make John’s justice, much simpler.

Their first field trip provided nothing, besides John’s breakfast, and soon the two men were moving on to the another of the location’s Sherlock had found through his cross-referencing. With the vampire having fed he was recharged enough to again experiment with the consulting detective and the results were slightly better than the first; images coming through faster and clearer.

The second place on their list turned out to be a dead end as well, the two found nothing out of the ordinary, and after moving on to the third the night was waning, leaving them both irritable with their lack of success.  The cab ride to the next location was slightly more silent than those before it, as Sherlock mulled over everything again and again, trying to find the holes in his research.  

Granted he had very little to go on.  Mycroft had given him the name of a contact that may be able to lead them to a member of this rogue group but he had not had any success contacting them by phone.  It would have to wait for another night, which was aggravating.  By the time they had come to the all-night cafe they had little more than twenty minutes to scope the place out before they closed.  

John was paying the cabbie, as Sherlock went right to work inside the establishment.  There were few patrons left, one of the barista’s giving them an exhausted and bored grimace, as the detective came through the door.  Sherlock started with the pink dread-locked female behind the bar, barking orders at her emo co-worker (the exhausted and bored male) that was wiping tables with a less than lack lustre enthusiasm.  Both of them, although interesting individuals in themselves, were nothing like what he was searching for. They stood out.  Agents of a secret faction of an underground community would be more normal, less noticeable.

There was a hefty woman, in her mid-forties, near a table in the back, itching to smoke even though she was quit, who looked like she was about to give in to temptation, and there was a young pock faced teen who was obviously ditching his curfew to work on his fake profile on a hook-up site, away from the prying eyes of his parents.  They did not fit the profile he had put together either.  His calculating gaze moved to the woman seated by the large bank of windows at the front of the store, as the bell for the door signaled John's approach—but the she was gone.

Sherlock whirled back to the door to see nothing more than a shock of black hair and the back of a blue jean jacket, as the woman dashed around the vampire and out into the dark street.  It was clear evasion.  The detective did not hesitate to pursue, John quickly picking up on his cue, but even with the vampire's speed and agility they were unable to locate the girl after they had gotten outside of the cafe.  It was as though she had simply disappeared.

John didn't ask before scaling the close knit buildings to garner a better view, yet he too returned empty handed, without a clue as to where the woman had gone.  At least this was more of lead than they had gotten at the other two places.  The woman had clearly understood what he was looking for and she had used his attention to the others to make her escape.  They would need to return the following evening to follow up on this, perhaps they had found a Talmasca or rogue Talmasca meeting point.

"Who was that?" John inquired, as they caught a cab back to the safe house.  

"I'm not sure." Sherlock admitted, "Someone whom we obviously want to find and investigate further."

"She just...vanished." John said aloud, sounding befuddled by more than not being able to keep up with the woman.  Sherlock cocked his head and knit his brows, and John continued, with a shrug, "Well, I mean, not just anyone could do that.  It's as though her entire person transported somehow…somewhere else.  Scent and all.  All at once."

"Certainly a lead we must follow up on." Sherlock repeated his original sentiment, this time with more conviction.

"Do you honestly think she will return if she doesn't want to be found?" John countered, giving a skeptical lift of his brows.

"She may not but if she is more than human than the cafe may be a meeting place, as I had suspected, and others may come.  We should come back tomorrow evening as soon as you are able." Sherlock explained.

They checked out one more place without any luck before returning to the safe house.  When they came inside, Sherlock shed his coat and quickly returned to his mess on the kitchen table, rifling through the papers, beginning to scribble notes in red on some of them.  John lingered, entering the kitchen but feeling useless there at the same time.  The vampire began to wonder if it was all worth it, all this time and effort, when Moriarty seemed to be a greater threat, with far more mysterious powers. 

Figuring out Mary's death was what he wanted. He felt it might bring meaning to her altogether needless murder, but as John watched Sherlock working as diligently as he had on any other mystery he began to worry at his bottom lip with his fangs.  What was Moriarty?  How did he come into this kind of supernatural power and what kind of power was it?  Could John really keep Sherlock safe?

"John, stop thinking so hard, it's distracting." Sherlock's biting tone cut in.

The vampire's eyes shifted to the man, who was still rifling through papers.  It was nearly dawn, John could feel the suns approach like a weight growing on him.  His thoughts were repetitive and rhetorical anyway, questions that could not really be answered.  He decided to leave the detective to his work.  As he left the room, the man called after him, "May I…join you this time?"

John was still for a moment, eyes distant and glassy.  Finally, he just shook his head.  The man never gave up.  "As you have already discovered, it is a physical impossibility for us to share a bed anymore, so no." Then he scoffed and added, "Not that that would stop you."

Sherlock came out of the kitchen, catching John just before he left to the safe room in the basement.  "I did not mean in that manner." he said honestly, quietly asking, "I meant…to observe."

John gave a resigned sigh.  This kind of talk made him anxious.  A part of him still wanted the man.  The idea of having him close and intimately still made his prick twitch.  The other part just wanted to be left alone, wished to seclude himself from this sort of temptation and distraction.  Finally, John grumbled a response, "Fine."  Then he pointed a finger in the detective's face and warned, "But no projectiles or brooms this time."

Sherlock smirked at him, replying, "As I have stated, you will need to get another broom."

"I will put that on your list of things you will be replacing." John volleyed back, before walking through the door.  "The code is 072510.  Don't electrocute yourself this time."

As the door closed behind the vampire, Sherlock chuckled to himself.  The code had been a date.  It was the day they had first met.  Sherlock had not considered that.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was no reference for the etiquette one should use when observing an unnatural creature fall into it’s uncontrollable biological slumber. Though, Sherlock had never been one to concern himself much with etiquette, he had waited to follow John into the basement only long enough to obtain what he required. When his bare feet touched the silken carpet of the lower space, John lazily lifted his head only enough to crack an eye at the detective and let out a tired huff.  His left arm moved up over his head, the forearm draped over his eyes, as if he needed to shield his eyes in the already very dim room. Somewhere between a bemused laugh and an exasperated sigh the sound preceded the statement, “You’re not filming this, Sherlock.”

The man didn’t acknowledge the vampire. He simply went about setting up his items on the dressing table that would be his observation point. This included his laptop. The recording program was already loaded as the screen blinked back to life and cast a blue electronic light in contrast to the soft reds and ambers that lit the room. Then the mortal man left the room, causing John to actually sit up and frown, looking at the laptop and the towel that covered several other lumpy items on the dressing table.

His agreement to allowing Sherlock into his space to observe him was quickly becoming another one of those things he wished he hadn’t given into. But his eyes were already heavy and the tingling heaviness that accompanied the beginning of his decent into the death slumber was strong. He knew there was no chance of winning an argument at this point. Instead, when the detective returned, stepping through the doorway with a glass of water, John warned him.

“Don’t make me regret this, Sherlock.” John’s head was beginning to swim and it was difficult to focus on the figure of the man.

“I’m sure you already do, John. You will have access to my findings, I assure you.” Sherlock countered smoothly. Hastily clicking on the keypad to activate the camera that was positioned to capture John who flopped back on the bed and almost immediately was unconscious. 

Sherlock quickly adjusted the screen to capture a better angle of the sleeping figure and then maneuvered himself within a three-foot distance from the bed to observe John more closely. He began vocally noting his observations much like a medical examiner during an autopsy. The dark humor was not lost on the consulting detective and he couldn’t help but smirk a little, knowing that John wouldn’t appreciate the jest just now, but perhaps in the future. The brunet ensured he maintained an additional physical distance of a couple of feet from John until he had a chance to test the threat reaction with another living creature.

Once the initial observation was concluded, Sherlock set about working on a few of the experiments that he believed John would accept. The proximity with objects was retested with the same results, though as requested he didn’t throw anything this time, nor did he use what was left of the broom. A variety of noise stimuli was administered with no waking. The glass of water was tossed on the sleeping vampire and Sherlock curiously noted the small jerk of movement just before the pool struck John in the chest. No other movement followed. Next came attempts to vary the speed of objects extending towards the sleeping body with the goal to pierce or score the flesh. Fast had the quickest reaction of defense but slower objects did not fare much better. The closest the consulting detective was able to get to the man was only a few inches more than his initial observations the previous evening.

Once he had exhausted his available resources he contemplated his next course of action. There was one other theory he desperately wished to test but he would need to leave the safe house to do so efficiently—something he had promised John he would not do.

There was a dull throbbing ache building behind his pale eyes and the sleep that he had been forgoing was beginning to take its toll. Choosing to not endanger his recent gains by way of John’s acceptance, the detective decided to call an end to this round of testing. He finished his recording and uncharacteristically, he tidied up the space and the mess as best he could.

Standing in the dimly lit room he observed the deathly still form of the vampire. John’s transformation was still extraordinary to the consulting detective. He found it incredibly distracting to more irritably and vexingly drawn to another individual. There had always been a quality about the man that the genius had found undeniably alluring. However, this transformation had not only made John painfully handsome, restoring a younger, stronger, and more vibrant look to his every feature, but it had also made him dangerously powerful. The Dark Gift, as the vampires had coined it, had given this regular man all the allure of a wild cat.  Grace, beauty, and an unfailing need to kill to survive. Before, Sherlock could concede that John held few gifts that were superior to his own.  Those, without standing included his social abilities, his medical skills, and little else. Now, however, John held a far superior set of skills and abilities than Sherlock could ever hope to surpass in this form.

Being this type of a creature seemed to have inconsequential draw-backs, so long as you could over-come the morality of killing, which in itself was easily thwarted by ensuring, like John had been taught, to target those who deserved to die or those whom wished for it. Giving up the daylight hours was easy enough, Sherlock preferred working when less people were about to muddle up his work.  The only bother about it, the fact that he would indeed be incapacitated during the daylight hours by the Death Slumber, which certainly would be irksome to become accustomed to.

Deciding his mind was too weary for much else the man acquired what he wanted from the upstairs flat and then, shutting the door behind him, returned to the basement. Flopping down on the chaise lounge that was along a far wall overlooking the bed, the man quickly fell asleep. After all, there was really no point in sleeping elsewhere if this was, indeed, the safest room in the house, and his work on the case could wait at least a few hours of rest.

***

John often wondered why he still dreamed as an immortal blood sucking vampire.  Not because he believed that his brain had made any crazy fundamental changes physiologically, but rather because it did not coincide with the definition of 'vampire' that he had grown up with.  Now, being one and having dreams as regularly as he ever did, it always seemed odd.

His dreams for the most part were nothing out of the ordinary or much different than what they had been before.  Sometimes they were random drivel, like hanging with his mates from school, sneaking drags from stolen cigarettes, or the odd getting running-away-terror that always entertained the idea of locked doors or doors that opened to nowhere.  Sometimes they were more contemporary, dealing with his change, blood drinking, or hunting.  

Sometimes they were of that night, the night Lestat took him.  Those were the worst ones.  One might consider them more nightmarish than a dream.  He would hear Sherlock's scream from the other side of the mobile and then the crunch of his own skin breaking under the pressure of the blond monster's teeth—too loud and terrifyingly crisp to be real—as pain resonated throughout his entire being like liquid fire in his veins, when his blood was slowly, methodically, suctioned from his body, gulp by audible gulp.  Sometimes he could see Sherlock watching this happen to him over the face-time connection on the mobile.  At times, the detective would look horrified and disgusted.  He would scream and cry out, in as much pain as John could feel.  Other times his face would smile, horribly delighted and intrigued, utterly captivated by it all, those silver eyes of his alight with aroused curiosity.  Once Louis had arrived in time to save him, heal him, and keep him from their mutual maker's designs.  Most of the time he didn’t come at all, leaving John to wake and return to the reality of being what he was now.  A vampire.  A blood-sucker.  An Angel of the Night—a disgustingly romanticised way of viewing someone who killed to survive.

This time, however, he knew he was dreaming.  He didn't know all the time and when he did it always felt surreal.  Knowing this time that he was dreaming felt different.  Comforting somehow, like being in a place one knew and loved.  Yet John did not recognize this place. 

He found himself in an immense house with many rooms, all of them lavish and grand, decorated with expensive drapes and rugs and wood furniture.  John had been in very few places that could compare to the elitist feel of what was obviously a grand estate home. 

The house seemed silent and would have been completely so to any mortal ears.  To his own enhanced hearing though he could detect the sound of movement coming from the second floor.  He took the extra wide staircase two steps at a time, following the noise down a long hallway to a set of ornate french-style doors, that opened into a large library.  The expanse of the room beyond defied reason.  It was much to large to fit inside the house he had just explored and he took a moment just to gawk at it.  There was floor to ceiling bookshelves, lined with more books than he had ever saw before, lined up in five duplicate rows on either side of the doorway.  In the middle of this open space there was a large wooden desk, with a laptop, sporting a high wing-back chair, which was flanked by two leather club chairs for guests or clients.  

"Ah, John," Sherlock's voice called to him.

He swiveled on the heel of his shoe, to see the detective high on a ladder at one of the book cases.  He put back a volume he held in his hand and then, gripping the metal rungs on either side of the latter, he slipped down to the floor in a quick fluid whiz of motion.  He loped over, in his wide strides, beaming, as he announced, "I'm glad you've come.  Please, sit."

John was directed by the man to the club chairs at the desk and he moved to one to sit, as Sherlock took the wing-back on the other side.  The detective pulled his lap top closer, as though he were some staunch lawyer beginning to address a new client.  His fingers began typing at the key board, without even the delay to open a program or file, as he gazed across the expansive desk top at John.  "Are you surprised?"

"Surprised?" John repeated the word, unsure what the man was getting at.  All of this was surprising.  

"You're dreaming." Sherlock stated, as though this were an answer of some kind that would enlighten him in some manner.

John hated that tone of voice.  The tone that always suggested that he should understand, when in fact he was dumbfounded as all hell.  His brows crossed over his eyes and he snapped, peevishly, "No shit, Sherlock."

"Ah, you don't know where you are," Sherlock surmised in a single irritating statement, his fingers still busy tapping.

"Can't say as I have ever been in a library that defies all proper principals of space and dimension, inside a house that looks fit to be the Queen's damned summer house." he retaliated, still irked by the man's less than helpful reply.  "I know that I'm dreaming, but what does that have to do with you?"

"Well, quite a lot it appears." the detective said, his eyes darting back momentarily to the laptop, before he finally pushed it aside.  He laced his fingers together on the desk top in front of him and squared his shoulders.  By the time he finally had out with it, John's molars were grinding.  "This is my mind palace."

John sat silent and stunned, as Sherlock looked back at him, quite satisfied with himself.  The vampire stuttered with a reply, "Y-you mean, I'm in it?"

"Well, a part of it anyway." Sherlock confirmed, his smile growing.  "That's what is so surprising, don't you think?"

John was confused and he knew that he looked the part. “I’m in your head?”

"Yes.” Sherlock explained, his voice titillating with his discovery, as he rose from his chair, coming to pace in the open space behind John.  The vampire twisted in the chair to look at the man, as he continued, "You see, the dream from the other night wasn't really just a dream either. You have somehow found a way to enter my mind palace while we both sleep, through a process similar to dreaming and also similar to how we communicate telepathically."

"You're loony," John scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at the detective.  "It's just a bloody dream, same as any.  I will probably wake up to find you staring at me through the damned lens of that camera you set up."

"Don't be daft, John, this should not easily be dismissed." the detective scolded, his nose and eyes scrunching with distaste.  "You have said so yourself, you don't really know how all of the gifts immortality has granted works.  We should explore this more."  

Sherlock plunked himself down in the chair beside John, his hands gripping the vampire's knees, as he implored, "We have a chance to really experiment here.  To test your limits and abilities without the threat of harm to either of us."

"It's just a dream, Sherlock." John repeated stubbornly, emphasizing, "This can't be a true sense of anything.  It's in our minds, we could imagine anything."

"Ah, so you do agree with me then that our minds are somehow linked!" Sherlock crowed triumphantly.

"I suppose," John sighed as he answered, "it would explain why you know about the…the 'other' dream."

"Oh, yes, all of it." Sherlock confirmed, with a quick nod of his head, not the least bit embarrassed about admitting it.  John was having a harder time with that bit.  If his face could go bright red, he supposed that it would have by now.  

Seeing the vampire knew damn well how easily it was for the other man to decipher what he was thinking without having to read his mind, John moved the subject along, with a quick, "So, you want to experiment and now you have the means of doing so."

"The means well within our control." Sherlock clarified, gesturing with open palms to the space around them.  "The mind palace is a place that I can manipulate to fit my needs.  We can change it into any scenario we wish."

The incredulous look wasn’t lost on Sherlock, yet he was distinctly aware that John wasn’t entirely convinced of the current opportunities afforded to them through the unique mind-link they shared. Pivoting to his left he snatched up the perfectly balanced rapier that appeared as if by magic. Without hesitation, the thin steel sword was lunged forward, the pointed tip sinking the cleanly through John’s torso. The movement was swift, decisive, and John stood frozen.  His hands had only risen half-way into a defensive position before the blade had pierced him with a strange detached pain, akin to being pinched.

Sherlock smoothly stepped back, letting the handle loose. It bobbed slowly in a comical fashion from its impaled position in the vampire. John’s mouth was open, eyes wide in shock as he stared in disbelief at the 10 inches of cold steel that protruded from between his third and fourth true ribs, a clean bulls-eye through his heart. Sherlock had stabbed him. In the heart. Without hesitation and without warning, though he supposed if there had been a warning, he never would have allowed it.

The curly haired brunet stood triumphantly before the vampire.

“There! Clearly you have suffered no real harm, nor would yo—“The word smeared into a cry as John’s fist connected with the side of Sherlock’s face, catapulting him out of the mind palace.

Shocked out of the semi-meditative sleep-state the consulting detective lay on the floor a few minutes and rubbed his jaw.  He had tumbled off of the divan and despite the very real knowledge that what took place in his mind had not physically happened, his muscles had reacted in a very real way. Thus the pain, though obviously not as intense as if it had happened, was present and would be well into the evening.

This was an incredibly annoying set back and not at all what he had hoped to experience. There was sure to be more fallout once John awoke. Sherlock looked over towards the deathly still form on the bed. John’s body was in a similar position, only having shifted slightly here and there.

Sherlock twisted his head to the left to release some of the tension that was threatening to start a splitting headache and then he rose to his feet. There was no point trying to re-enter his mind palace with expectations of continuing. It had taken several hours of willing John into his mind and wandering the endless hallways and rooms of his mind palace before the other had suddenly appeared. This process had worked but at a physical and mental toll.  He felt as though he had not slept at all.

 His body required sustenance and there was take out left in the fridge that would be sufficient. The door to the safe room latched behind him and he took two steps towards the kitchen until he became immediately aware that they were not alone in the house.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

 

The intruder wasn’t particularly concerned with being discovered and even though he could detect no forced entry, the detective knew the threat level was low. Continuing towards the kitchen, Sherlock heard the clatter of dishes being dumped into a sink full of water. As he stepped into the modest space spotted the familiar figure of Marisa.

The girl from Puffin Island was standing over the sink, casually rinsing bubbles off a few dishes as if she was just another flat-mate cleaning up after having a snack.

“I ate your left overs.” She stated calmly, in a very matter-of-fact tone, without bothering to turn or glance back at her company.

The genius was unsure how he had given himself away, but wasted little time dwelling on the short coming.  “Lestat enlist your watching again? I do believe I have made it very clear that it is not needed nor welcomed.” he grumbled, the words pleasant but his tone growling.

This brusque introduction from Sherlock was followed by a displeased rumble of his stomach. He glowered at his own digestive system before looking back at the girl who still had her back to him.

“Just as charming as ever, huh?” She countered, pulling the plug in the sink.  She proceeded to snatch up a towel to dry her hands before finally turning to face the lanky man.  When their eyes met the girl winced and complained, “Ugh, you look like you needed that more than I did. Damn you’re skinny. Let’s order you a pizza or something.”

Sherlock continued to glare. He was becoming more frustrated as the girl skirted around answering his question.  He asked again, without preamble, “Why are you here?”

Marisa rolled her large eyes with a pretty flutter of long auburn lashes and tossed the towel down onto the counter. Turning away again, she began searching through the cupboards, neglecting to provide the consulting detective with an answer. Sherlock stood fast in his spot by the doorway, assessing what could be going on and what the next move should be. Clearly the girl was here for a purpose that she was hesitating to reveal. If she was here, it surely meant that Lestat was back in the picture and that she needed help of some sort.

She wasn’t hostile, her stance and manner were infuriatingly casual. Try as he might, he wasn’t able to read the young woman.  She exuded this infuriating frustration with her involvement in this affair, obviously drawn in against her will. Yet she carried herself as though she could handle the situation, as dangerous and outrageous as it had become.  A conflicting mixture of both willing and unwillingness adrenaline laced courage skirting about her emotions and actions, even as she now hesitated and contemplated withdrawal. Was she here because she had to be or was she here because she wanted to be? A vieled threat or a warning? Forced or by secret?   And then it dawned on him and in a triumphant rush of words, he blurted the epiphany, “You were the contact who ran out on us the other night.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, analyzing her reaction but to his displeasure there was not even a pause in her movements to indicate she had even heard him.  He continued to verbalize his evidence against her, “If you were the contact then that means you have been working for the Talmasca this entire time. Does Lestat know you’re moonlighting as a double agent? He must have an inkling, surely. If you are not working for the original group, which is evident by your direct involvement with a high-profile vampire, then it means you must be from the rogue faction. That would be logical, given your interest in John when we initially met on the island.” Sherlock was starting to rapidly place several of the odd pieces of the puzzle into shape.

“Interesting theory.” The girl finally replied, filling up a kettle she had finally produced from an upper cabinet. She placed it on the oven, tossing a cheap tea bag into the waiting china pot.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, as he worked to slow his thunderous thought process and focus on what he could observe.  Marisa seemed to enjoy the break in the conversation or was it his inability to keep up? He felt as though he were being toyed with, as she focused not on him but on the tea pot and the mundane preparation of the cup in her hand. In his irritation, the detective began to assess her once again, working his eyes in a quick but calculating scan of her person.  

The redhead was pretty, even more so now that she had applied a understated swath of cosmetics. Her soft milky skin was clean of the dirt and feathers of her research labors and her naturally pink lips were even more alluring and distracting, complimented by the darker streaks on roan in the strands of hair that framed her face, combed and arranged.  

At the cafe, her hair had been much darker, a deep shade of mahogany that damn near bordered on black, and still those soft pretty features had been just as complimentary.  

The detective knew that the chemical process of changing one's hair color was not all that time consuming and was easily accessible to even the most novice of users but it also came with certain other characteristics that the girl before him lacked.  Marisa smelled as she always had on the island, the simple fragrance of the wind-swept cliffs and sea spray, with the underlying smell of femininity—which after all, was a rather plain smell that he supposed was uncharacteristic of an individual at all.  He wondered then if the body odor she always exuded—so unchanging—was a mask, like the change in her hair color had been the other night.  There was no smell of chemical processing and he knew that to shift one's locks from dark to light was tedious and often destructive to the hair follicle itself.  This was something _other_ —perhaps some kind of supernatural phenomenon—akin to her knack for disappearing and appearing in places she had no business being able to get into.  

With his knew enlightenment to the supernatural aspects deeply hidden within the constructs of the world he had known, he would no longer be surprised to ascertain that she was gifted somehow as well.  It would certainly explain what modern scientific data and logic could not.  

The girl had never been one to freely divulge information so the detective switched his tactics.  He seated himself in a chair at the table, leaning back to mirror her casualness.  He gave a shrug of his shoulders and said simply, "Never thought you'd be the type to leave your work behind for a man."  It was said with just enough condescension to make those green eyes flash up at him with the first real break in her placid casual mask. 

Marisa couldn't help but retaliate.  Verbal fencing after all was something that the two of them had enjoyed immensely during his indenture in that tiny croft.  "I didn't come back _for you_." she spat venomously.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side with a smarmy smirk to his mouth, enjoying how it ruffled her perfectly preened feathers, as he shook a finger at her and lectured the obvious, "Your persistent search for my whereabouts and your sudden appearance in my safe-house would suggest otherwise."

He could just about hear her grinding her molars as he took the upper hand.  He did have to credit the girl for how quickly she returned the mask, in an attempt to hide her palpable frustration. With the water boiled, she took the time to prepare the tea in her cup.  He continued, adding, "The only real question, is why you do not want John to see you?"

"We both know what he is and what he is capable of," she snapped, her voice sudden and intense, as her fingers gripped the tea cup angrily, "there is more than one reason as to why one might not want to be close to that creature."

That was something.  It was said with such detachment and anger, suggesting negative past experiences with the kind.  She obviously did not see John for who he was any longer, only for what he had become, and knowing she had dealings with Lestat the detective could surmise a few possible reasons as to why that was.  Lestat was not the easiest vampire to deal with, as he had found out.

The detective was about to prod her more and, as though she had expected him to, the girl relented in her mask and her game.  As her fingers stroked the sides of the china cup in her hand, her strong voice came out of her weak and quiet.  "I don't wish to see him as he is now... and I fear his ability to garner thoughts from my mind would endanger him more so than the two of you already are."

Sherlock absorbed this freely given information, assessing its validity from the way her large eyes refused to look up at him.  Again he could see this pull within her. Something pulling one way and some else pulling another—an internal struggle that suggested she was here because she was forced to be here. She stared at the cooling tea in the cup and he could see that she was nervously biting the inside of her lip, calculating what to say, how to say it, and yet still how to protect herself.  This certainly was a strange meeting.  Who was she really working for?  Surely, it could no longer be Lestat.  

The vampire was too abrupt to have a minion come and serve his needs, plus there was no telling what had become of Lestat since his disappearance.  It seemed that Moriarty possessed quite a lot of supernatural power, for he had surely taken the vampire by surprise.  Obviously, she had ties to the Talmasca’s rebel faction in some capacity, but he doubted she was here solely on their behalf, and she would have never left the security of her hide-away-island and her puffins for her own purposes.  Why did she care about their endangerment?  She had no real tangible connection to either of them that would warrant a warning.

Leaving her puffins weighed on her shoulders, almost as much as the reason why she had come.  It was a dual yoke that made the small shoulders droop.  She had left the heavy jumper and jeans behind on the island.  The girl here now was polished and refined, making her natural beauty even more distracting to the opposite sex.  She was dressed smartly in a navy blazer that covered a cream silk blouse, complimented by tight black pants that made her legs look unbelievably long in contrast to her overall petite stature.  He had also noted that there was a plum colored wool peacoat hung next to his own at the door, again lending to her comfortability and nonchalance with the idea of trespassing.  The style she wore suited her, but he knew it was not _her_.  It was someone else’s MO.  It was to distract the eyes and also to camouflage.  She looked attractive, professional, and like any other late twenty something female in the city.

"You're here out of a sense of duty, perhaps even a smidgen of redemption for the sake of honor." He continued to assess.  Her eyes never left the tea in the china cup she still stroked nervously, "But it's not to any master or organization that you serve, it's for loyalty to something far greater.  Far more important to you."

"She didn't deserve what they gave her." Marisa retaliated, her eyes glancing up to make her point, lingering only long enough to make it poignant, before glancing back askance.

"Mary." Sherlock answered, "That’s how you know John, why you were asking about him on the island."  He paused only long enough to moisten his lips, before he asked her, "The 'they' you are referring to is the rogue faction of the Talmasca.  Tell me, are you still employed by them or have you defected as well?"

"Mary and I defected together." She shrugged and began to illustrate a past that Sherlock had only just started to imagine the woman John had loved, had lived at one time.  "We were partners, you could say.  The Talmasca would suggest that our talents complimented one another.  We kept one another safe.  Watching those who do not wish to be watched comes with that sort of need.  It was only natural that when she left that I went with her—I had to keep her safe and we could only do that for one another together."

"Out of duty." Sherlock provided.

"Out of love." Marisa implored. As she spoke of Mary it was the first time that the consulting detective could detect true emotion from her.  Not a mask, not a cover, but true sadness and regret. "She was like a sister to me.  Something neither of us had the privilege of having otherwise."

"You felt like she forced your hand." Sherlock pointed out.

"She did.” Marisa confirmed and then quickly amended, “Mary would never have expected me to follow.  She wasn't like that, but I couldn't let her go by herself."

"It was dangerous." the detective continued.

Marisa nodded.  "The Talmasca only watch.  They refuse to interfere and Mary did not always think that was right.  Sometimes you see things you can't un-see.  Things that shouldn't happen in the blinded reality that everyone else lives.”

“Even creatures like Moriarty?” the detective threw out there, like a baited line.

Marisa’s mouth quirked slightly at the corner, popping a slight dimple in her cheek. “Especially those.” She replied. She knew the line was baited and although she nibbled, she did not bite. She bypassed by adding, “Watching wasn't good enough for Mary anymore."

“So, the Talmasca merely watch and record.” Sherlock affirmed, prompting, “and the rebel faction…they fight the supernatural?”

Marisa’s headed bobbed from side to side in a swaying motion, clearly indicating both ‘yes’ and ‘no’.  “Mmm. They guard and protect.”

"Mary wanted to protect." Sherlock surmised.  

"Mary wanted action, the ability to do something if she felt the need to do so."  Marisa explained, sounding forlorn—longing for the comradery that she had shared with the other woman.  "Mary wanted justice, wanted to be a good person.  The Iuris promised that.  It just wasn't all it was cracked up to be once we were a part of it."

"She left altogether then, taking on the new identity." He paused then and their eyes met briefly, sharing an understanding of sorts.  "But you didn't. Ah! She didn't tell you she was leaving."

"I was...still disillusioned with the ideology of the group.  Mary didn't want me to leave what I was still willing to be a part of because her feelings had changed.  She would never stand for that." Marisa was quick to fill in the blanks and it was not hard to see that the woman regretted this part of her life, this decision, that she quite possibly felt she had somehow not done her part to save her friend. “I was angry. She had abandoned me.  It was a long time before I found her again. We had a…an argument and then went our separate ways.”

"Who killed Mary?"

“Iuris.” She replied, with a shrug. “The Talmasca let them do it. It took a loose end off of their hands. Kept them clean.”

“Why did they do it?” he asked the blunt question that was hanging in the air between them.

"She deserted.  She knew too much.  She was dangerous.  She was a traitor.  I was given a number of these to pacify my outrage.  They are all excuses for what was nothing less than cold blooded murder." Marisa explained in cold hard words that seemed to weigh a ton on the woman's shoulders—a weight that was not easily lifted nor forgotten.  

She picked up the cup, taking a sip of the tea for the first time since she had prepared it.  He took the cup she had brought over to the table for him and prepared it for himself, pouring the hot liquid into the fine china, decorated with little blue and white flowers.  They had never shared so much together before.  It had always been a hiding game and the many cups of tea they had shared over his enforced captivity on the island had been the few moments when they stopped sparring.  Now she was obviously in over her head, dealing with what she felt was a far greater power than she could control.  She had lost a friend—a sister in arms—and this was her way of somehow trying to make up for it.  He took a tentative sip from the cup as she drank a second time and after he had swallowed the familiar brew, he asked her, "Who was responsible for the kill order?"

Slowly she drew the cup away, her eyes distant and forlorn, and he felt that even though she was convicted to release this information to him that she was still somewhat apprehensive about it.  In a soft tone, she mumbled, "His name is Ludvik.  He's one of the group's cofounders, one of three.  He gave the order and the others supported it because they dare not stand against him."

"He is...powerful?" Sherlock asked, slowly spiraling out of his depth, as she delved into what he assumed was not influential power but supernatural.

"Very." she answered bitterly, with a concise nod of her head.  "He has in his possession an ancient artifact that has ability to amplify his telekinetic abilities.  He has been using it of late to bully the other elders into coinciding with his decisions, making it look like a democracy, when it’s all just a facade to hide his own agenda.  I'm not sure what he's trying to attain but it obviously is off the mark to say the least.  It's like he wants to start a damn war or something."

"With who?" Sherlock was very interested now in the supernatural politics of this underworld so closely knit with their own.

"With the creatures that we watch." she concluded.  She took another drink and then shrugged it off, dismissively adding, "Let's just say it ain't no peace keeping mission any more."

"So you want revenge then," the detective said with disdain, folding his arms over his chest, "and you want John to deliver it for you."

"John's just the muscle, Sherlock, let's be honest." she chided back, glaring at the self-righteous detective across from her.  "We both know that without me he wouldn't get anywhere."

It was hard for the detective to not feel spurned by being left out of this little plan she was trying to hatch.  Marisa seen his indignation and swiftly cut him off.  "Head to Prague and I will help you get in.  Help you to meet with Ludvik as privately as I can arrange it.  He is aware that John is a vampire and he thinks it was all part of Mary's scheme to betray the group.  He wants John dead and if given the chance he will pounce on the opportunity to accomplish the deed himself.”  Marisa paused but a moment to moisten her lips, before continuing to explain, “You need to be the one to get the amulet away from him.  This will decrease his power enough that John will have a chance to kill him.  We all get what we want this way."

"How is it that I am getting anything?" Sherlock countered.

Marisa gave him a patronizing smirk from over top of her china cup, as she made a derisive scoff.  "Ugh, please, Sherlock, you're so transparent it's horrendous." She paused to chuckle, before adding, lasciviously, "You want John back in your pants.  With this business out of the way I'm sure you might actually have a shot at it."

The barb was well placed and the genius was neatly taken off-guard by the comment for an instant. She had cleanly maneuvered him into a position where any denial would only further implement the truth of her words. Instead of playing her game of attempting to illicit a response of confirmation or condemnation he instead arced an elegant eyebrow and took a long drought of tea from his cup. His face a mask of cool passivity and plausible doubt aimed at her from over the rim of the delicate china cup.

When the cup was lowered with the soft tinkle on the saucer and his expression remained unchanged, the mirth in her eyes faded to annoyance. With a puff of exasperation, she rolled her eyes and made a flippant gesture with her hand in his direction.  “Whatever. You don’t have anyone fooled, least of all me.”

The words were tired and Sherlock watched the little energy that had perked the girl up, drain back away as her shoulder sagged. The weight of the more serious matters at hand again bearing down on her as she reached into her back pocket and withdrew the mobile. The screen illuminated the time as a tired yawn escaped her pretty lips, she rose from her seat with a languid stretch. A little shake to her whole body at full extension and again as she relaxed.

“Ludvik is a dangerous man for more reasons than I can explain right now. You and John need to be ready for the unexpected, this guy will get into your head.” Snatching her cup she downed the last of her beverage and moved the dishes to the sink.

“How would you suggest one prepares themselves for such a thing? Is there a counter to the effects of this ‘artifact’ that you spoke of?” Sherlock enquired, genuinely curious what the girl would provide for an answer.

She paused, leaning back against the sink and looked away in consideration for a few moments before meeting his gaze. “Quite a few of the vampires have the gift of being able to infiltrate minds, I suspect John will as he always was an empathetic man in life. As a newer vampire, if he can get into your mind, then I am positive Ludvik will have no problems. You need to utilize the resources that are available to you, limited as they are. It’s widely known that David was an excellent telepath, he can help you if John cannot but,” The expression on her face became very serious as she looked at him.

“You mustn’t tell him of what you are going to be doing or who you are going up against.” Her words were firm and to finalize it, she added, “Don’t ask why because I cannot tell you and if you press me then I am done helping you. Just know this is how it must be.”

“What if David were to glean this very conversation from my mind?” Sherlock countered plainly, incredibly curious as to why this information was not to be given to David. Though it made the reason for her direct intrusion all the more logical.

“Ensure he doesn’t and don’t think on it if you do go to him for any ‘training’. Fill your mind instead with pictures of something else, the more random and nonsense the better. That is the one method I can give you against intruders that would hack your mind should you not be able to outright eject them or block them.” Marisa’s tone was one of experience, pushing herself away from the counter and interrupting Sherlock who had been about to ask another question.

“Look, I have to go. I’m going to work on the meeting and you can expect to hear from me as soon as I have confirmation. That being said, it could be later tonight or it could be in a few days just be ready to travel because it likely won’t be just a leisurely stroll.” Tucking her mobile back into place she turned and made her way out of the kitchen as Sherlock rose to follow her.

“That’s it?” Sherlock’s question sounded pathetic in his own ears, he was hoping for more information on the artifact and so he tried again. “What about this artifact?”

Despite his long stride the girl was already at the door and halfway down the front steps when he stood in the threshold. “Does it really matter? Just get it away from him.” She concluded.

Sherlock scoffed. “You expect me to put John in harms way without knowing the slightest thing about what he will be going up against?”

She paused at the bottom of the step and gave the consulting detective a long considering look from top to bottom, as if sizing up an opponent. “I gave you all the information that you need.” She said, coldly. Then she reached into her front pant pocket and tossed a small folded paper square at him. “It’s all I’ve been able to dig up on the thing and so far, as I know, there isn’t any way to counter its affects. Whoever has it garners some sort of supernatural power boost from it. I don’t think the Talmasca even knows about the thing or they would be losing their shit. Just get it away from him or your already slim odds are going to be statistically fatal.”

Sherlock looked incredulously between the small folded paper in his hand and the girl. He bit his lip.  As enticing as it may be to exact revenge on Mary’s murderer for John and forfill his promise to his former lover, this little adventure may also conclude his tie to the man. He could tell that Marisa could sense this. She shrugged at him, conveying in that shrug that it was a risk he would have to weigh.

But he had one more question for her. “What do you know of Jim Moriarty, Marisa.” She stopped. She didn’t turn back to him, simply cocked her head back slightly. It was enough. “Surely, if he truly has returned from beyond the grave Iuris is paying close attention.”

“I know very little.” She said.

“How is it possible?” the detective demanded. His anger and eagerness was not cloaked. “Is he…a demon?”

It was the puffin girl’s turn to scoff and again he noted the smirk at the corner of her mouth. “Wasn’t he already?”

It was all she said before she left down the street, latching the gate behind her. Sherlock let her go, somehow knowing if he pursued the question further she would either lie or fain ignorance.  There was that duplicitous sense of duty and force about her again that made the detective question whether she was helping or delivering someone else’s message. He watched her walk away down the street, realizing as he lost sight of her around a building that it was the first time she had not disappeared on him. Although his mind longed to know what powers the strange girl possessed, the note in his hand and the task ahead called his attention back.

Returning inside the long fingers took care to unfold the delicate square of paper. It had been folded in the style of public school love notes, little hearts penned on its edges here and there as a new tab was unhooked. Once the sheet was spread out it revealed a hastily sketched image of what he could only guess was some sort of oval carved stone. There were various characters around the outside boarder that had hints of various origins that made no sense. Babylonian, Sanskrit, Roman, Futhark and even what appeared to be a few hieroglyphs. It looked like a terrible attempt to sketch a prop for some outrageous fantasy movie script.

 It was difficult enough to take the thought of this item seriously without the ludicrous appearance of this sketch. There was a small message in fine cursive at the bottom of the paper that read: ‘Origin Unknown, C.D. 14 000 B.C.’ The concept alone was causing a slow aching throb to form behind his eyes. The mystery of this item was not his concern and though he was loath to admit it, it was out of his depth and so it was best to simply accept that this was the object they were looking for and to deny his mind’s mental longing for more data.

 He glanced at the clock. John would be rising from his slumber soon and would need to be caught up with the recent changes. For now, the paper was folded back up, more simplistically and deposited in his front trouser pocket, as Sherlock went about preparing for the evening and John’s waking.

***

Pale lips parted and drew in a slow breath. The air was moist, tasting of salt from the ocean he over looked. Refracted sapphire eyes closed as his hands gripped the cool railing beneath them. The sounds of the promenade faded at his will, until the man stood in the blissful silence of his own mind. It was just after midnight and he felt alive. Letting the thrum of his own heart beat its immortal rhythm calmly with his exhalation.

_Tragedy_. The word sprang into his mind and Lestat’s body tensed for an imperceptive moment before it and all of its implications were dismissed. All of its truths and foreboding. His reprieve had been shattered, the reality of his world was seeping back in and with it all the actualizations that he in no way could escape his most recent imperilment. The best he could hope for was some level of forgiveness once the plot was revealed and acceptance by the many he had wronged and would wrong, that he himself was an unwitting pawn with no true sense of what was being done by him.

Ignorance was a poor excuse, hard to believe, harder still to forgive.

 Passionate and bold, the Vampire Lestat had always been. Sometimes cruel but now his barbarity had reached new heights. His manipulations had uncharacteristically dark purposes and sinister intentions. They were not beyond his scope, but they were not of his true nature. Yet to all that knew him now, he was simply becoming the vile manipulator they had always known he could be. This thought, the knowledge of how those he loved now saw him, carved a black pit of despair into his chest.

“Ah,” chided the dark and melodious voice of his puppeteer, “if you are going to weep, don’t ruin a good shirt.” The demon stepped up beside the blond vampire, his eyes black iris-less eyes were focused forward over the sprawling cityscape all around them.

Lestat had tasted enough pain in the unknown time he had spent in the company of this bastard demon-possessed madman to know enough not to answer. Instead, he cast his eyes skyward and remained as relaxed as he could will himself to be.

“It’s time we move this little game along my pale knight. I expect that there shall be no falter in your part. I surely could not have made it more clear what the repercussions will be should you attempt to betray me or you fail outright. It might seem as if you stand to gain nothing by succeeding in my tasks but rest assured, there will be a reward of sorts. I am not without the ability to provide mercy, what sweeter gift can there be?” The smile turned to vampire was cheshire and with eyes black as pitch the fear welled again in Lestat’s gut. It only served to widen the demons grin, who seemed expectant now for an answer.

“I can think of none.” His voice was meek, alien to Lestat’s own ears. The prince was gone and here there was the boy who had been beaten brutally for attempting to run away with the players centuries before.

Moriarty gave him a look over, from his toes to the crown of his head, and then stepped in closer. Arms wrapped tenderly around his shoulders, fingers tangling briefly in golden trestles of hair as he pressed his slender body along the lean cool form of the vampire in a morbid display of false affection. The coal black eyes swam like pools of tar, churning with what Lestat could imagine to be souls of the damned. His stomach roiled against having this creature against him and yet, against his own volition his arms reached out and wrapped around the smaller man’s waist. 

“Such a beauty, Lestat. It was such a delight to break your lion heart.” Moriarty leant in and pressed his cold lips against his captive’s. They were thin and hard, opening as a wet tongue pushed its way into Lestat’s mouth. He felt the bile rising in his throat. A great gush of pain caused him to grip the demonic man and to onlookers it would seem as if their embrace was of the greatest passion.

The reality was Moriarty was consuming him, pulling the will from him to fight. He was drinking his blood and with it taking his ability to do anything beyond what this creature willed him to do. When the kiss finally broke and the smaller man stepped away, the vampire collapsed to his knees on the concrete. The agony that burned in every fiber of his being was loss, loss for all his strength, for all of his will, and for everything that he loved. Success or failure, Moriarty would torture and kill everything Lestat loved. Mercy was his prize should he succeed.

“Now, now. You always wanted to be a famous actor, Lestat. Let’s see what you’ve got and remember, your precious Louis is where I will start, should you fail me. The first and the last to perish. Thoughts of peeling his flesh off, bit by bit are making me salivate already.” Lips smacked to emphasize the point as Lestat stared at the perfectly polished shoes in front of him, still struggling to regulate his breathing.

Then he left. Walking off into the night, Lestat remained on his knees, back to the city and he did not weep. He did not get sick. He only wished that death would release him from what was to come.

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

 

 

 

John was not accustomed to having the edge on Sherlock Holmes, but it was an idea that he was sure he could come to appreciate more and more.  There had been little talk when he had first awakened, even though the vampire was eager to scold the detective for the surprise shank he had received with the rapier in the mind palace. Sherlock was busy typing at his laptop, nose deep into something new.  There was no sense in arguing with him when he was like this. It would be like talking to a wall. Even though John knew this well he was still found it fascinating and bewildering to watch.

Even though he found himself drawn to stare at the way the man’s thin fingers raced across the keyboard or the way his teeth ground down over his full bottom lip, he moved passed this, walking briskly into the kitchen.  The vampire was ignored, as he anticipated that he would be, and he came to look over the man’s shoulder at what he was so feverishly researching.  The screen was a mass of open browser tabs, thick with volumes of text, and scant on pictures, making it damn near impossible for him to decipher how or what this had to do with their current mission. 

Still there was no response from the man in front of the laptop.  John meant to move away, there was no need to remain so close, yet he was gripped by another crux of his immortal body.  Watching was easily dismissed, but the smell of the man proved harder to ignore.  Along with the man’s familiar musk came a waft of memories, vivid and palpable as they rolled through his mind, sending electrified spasms through his body the furthest reaches of each extremity.  The smell of him close, the scent of him working without relent, the aroma of the man naked and sweat slicked from their mutual exertions, as John took him on that leather chair he always liked to perch in.

Louis had warned John of these 'zonings'—things that could take a new vampire by surprise, a fascination so gripping that one forgot everything else and became lost in the experience itself.  It was a give-away, an attraction that drew the attentions of mortals to their kinds differences, which only garnered unneeded scrutiny that would lead to further investigation and discovery.  Their attractiveness was already too great a lure for the average human, a vampire had to guard themselves against anything else.  Louis’ most lectured point was this: do not draw attention to yourself; it garners far too much danger for both the mortal and yourself. 

John knew this. He had practiced avoiding it routinely and was regimented in his resolve to appear as mortal as possible. He fully understood the reasons why and the repercussions of not doing so, and yet now...he could not find that resolve.  He could not resist that scent and the reactions it caused in his new body.  Worst of all was the over powering feeling of possession that slowly claimed his senses, given even greater power by the strong aroma of his own scent overlaid on the man, his _new_ immortal scent laying claim to this man.  Just knowing that all others of his kind that came near would sense this as well, was as satisfying as any mortal climax.  There was no comparison.  

John became lost in this new sensation, this claim that he had laid, and suddenly his body seemed to be moving of its own accord, his mind in full agreement with his actions.  All he could think and feel was, _mine_!  His chin brushed past the soft dark curls on the man's head, his mouth opening, lips brushing round the shell of the ear before lapping lower. Teeth came to softly nip at the small attached lobe.  The taste of the man's skin, his oils, sweat, and flavor, tantalized his immortally strong palate, escalating what had already over taken his senses.  The man before him did not startle, however, the vampire was barely in control enough to register the discontent tense to the body now gripped by his strong hands, which grew more and more rigid with ever nip and lap of his teeth and tongue.  

The fingers had ceased their work at the keyboard and the head had angled softly, invitingly, for the caressing mouth.  One hand came to the fingers that gripped his biceps with a rough possession, as he gently urged the vampire on with a coaxing, "yes, John."  Sherlock could feel the increased rate of the hot breaths that panted against him and although he was surprised by his former lover's sudden loss of trepidation, he could not be more pleased to revel in his share of its benefits.  

This was far different from the soldier that had guided them both through the motions of mutual desire, longing, and fulfillment, and yet it was just as new and exciting as that time had been.  John was now a vampire and his cool touch had an air of danger that made the detective's fear receptors electrify in response.  Once again the detective began to wonder just if it was possible for a human and a vampire to engage in similar sexual acts to that which John and himself had partaken of in their former relationship.  The thought was magnified as the man felt the piercing crunch of fangs against his lobe, followed by the lap of tongue, and the suction of lips.  John's moan was low and guttural, animalesque in essence, and it made Sherlock's body respond in kind, his groin beginning to ache with growing want and need.

His need drove the thought into his mind's eye, the very real display of such a thing being a distinct possibility, as he recalled the memory of his own brother and the vampire so obviously indulging in the passions capable between a mortal man and an immortal.  The thought was broken just as John tore himself away, suddenly across the room, fearful, angry, and panting.

Sherlock understood immediately what had transpired to break the connection they had been sharing and he stood so forcefully from his own chair to rebuttal that the chair clattered to the floor behind him.  "John, please..." he started, a placating hand out stretched to the very upset immortal now plastered as far away from him as the small kitchen allowed, "it's okay.  I don't mind--"

"Fuck, Sherlock!" the vampire barked, so loud it was piercing.  He raked a hand back through his glistening short crop, pulling at the hairs in his frustration and palpable regret.  Those dark blue luminescent eyes darted about the room, anywhere but at the detective, until they had nothing left to focus on but Sherlock.  When their eyes met it was kinetic, like an electrical impulse surged between them, sharing their thoughts.  Sherlock's allowance of the incident, his need to reassure the other man that his vampirical act was not only accepted but desired, only proved to escalate John's ire.  "You can't—we can't—this just..." the vampire struggled to make a coherent sentence, even though Sherlock didn't need him to in order to understand what he meant to emphasize.

The detective's mouth opened again to rebuke the thought and John beat him to saying anything.  With a finger pointed at him from across the kitchen the vampire demanded, "No!  I know you want it, that you..." he paused, raking another hand back through his hair, as he swore, "fuck me...that you don't _mind_ if I do it."  He planted the finger back against his own chest, nearly yelling now, "But I do!  It's—It's too dangerous, too easy for me to lose control!  I won't be responsible for that! I will _not_ be!  You need to grasp that, get it through you head, and _now_!"

"John, I—?" the man wanted to defend himself, it was plain in the tensed lines of his face, and the vampire denied him his chance. 

"No, I won't hear it," he said, as he turned on his heel, shook his head at the man, and left the room.

Sherlock wouldn't give up.  He followed John, trying to get a word in, trying to vindicate his position, and John blocked all of it out as he closed in on the entrance, meaning to escape.  It was then that the detective caught his attention, swiftly and succinctly.  

John froze, halfway through the doorway.  He knew what he had heard, but for whatever reason he needed to hear it again.  He cocked his head back over his shoulder and demanded, "Say that again."

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed a minute degree.  He took a deep breath, moistening his lips, before he regained his dignity and straightened his spine.  Like a true Holmes, he tilted his head ever so slightly back, before he repeated himself, carefully, clearly, and with purpose.  "I know who killed Mary."

John let the words roll off of the other man's tongue, allowed them to soak into his brain.  He was both delighted, relived, and terrified.  He had wanted this, needed this, and now that he would have it, all he could think about was whether he should be concerned with it at all, when he knew that somehow Moriarty was still alive and a greater threat than ever.  His mind was roiling with all of it, the incident in the kitchen, the iron tang still on his tongue, and now this.  Still one fact remained poignant.  

The vampire's eyes narrowed on the detective.  "Good.  Get your things sorted and I will take care of mine."

"I have a plan, John." Sherlock confirmed.

"Figured as much.  After I get back, you can explain on the way." the vampire replied, before slipping out of the safe house and disappearing into the night.

 

***

 

Caramel eyes took their time reading the days paper as David sat in the quiet café. The few other patrons were quietly enjoying their own reading materials or chatting politely amidst the low methodic sounds of remixed classical that pumped through the wall mounted speakers. His long-time home was in the midst of a huge change for the nation to which he found great distaste in the whole concept. Finishing his article he folded the paper neatly and shook his head, setting it on the table in front of his chair. Despite his choice to no longer mettle in the mortal world, he was still a part of it and like all creatures who hoped to survive within it, he needed to be aware of the environment in which he was living.

His fingers moved to adjust the glasses up on his nose that no longer sat there, a habit that he still hadn’t fully shook. It seemed to arise more often when he was prone to moments of abject frustration. The hunger was rising in his veins and was only adding to the irritation he felt over the news he had read and his own personal dilemmas. It was time to follow up on his errands anyhow.

The immortal glided quietly and with little notice from the space, nodding to the barista that wished him a good evening before he exited into the night. There was no particular thing he fancied outside of the need to be rid of his hunger and so he let his feet guide him down the sidewalk. He passed a few people bustling about their evening and noticed a grizzled looking woman with a cardboard sign on her lap as she dozed. Wrapped in dirty rags, her unkempt blond hair sticking out from an old knit hat. Her head was lulled against the brick wall of a closed shop entry and the small pack beside her, he knew, carried all of her worldly possessions. 

She was dreaming, beautiful dreams of herself as a young girl running through a sun-swept field full of wild flowers and hay for harvesting. She had been a beauty and as David fished through his pocket and silently tucked the pounds into the small cup beside her, the hazel eyes tiredly slipped open to look at him. Lids still heavy with the mist of sleep as she smiled at him, missing several teeth the smile was full of unbridled love that took David aback. A strange ache for his mother, despite the lack of physical similarities, welled in the pit of his stomach. He leant down and kissed her on the cheek, her head turning to knowingly accept the sweet gesture.

They didn’t exchange words. The woman closed her eyes and fell right back to sleep, believing the beautiful man with the gracious offering was nothing more than her own fantastic dreams of a lost angel. There was temptation there for the vampire. To pull her to him and send her off to the summer fields she dreamed of but her heart still wanted too much to live and so she would.

“Oh, David, you’re such a bleeding heart.” Lestat’s voice was low and condescending, as to not rouse the dozing woman.

“Lestat?” David turned his gaze quickly, taking in the site of his maker who seemed more gaunt than usual. He made no attempt to disguise his concern at what he saw. There was a strange look to the vampire, something unsettling and forced about his body language. “Are you alright?”

The pink tongue darted out and vainly attempted to moisten his lips as, Lestat made a show of being nonchalant. He gave a flourished roll of his eyes and a tried to strike a casual gesture, explaining, “I went for a little trip. Where you may ask?” He paused for a moment, looking entirely confused. “I’m not exactly sure but I wasn’t very fond of the accommodations so, I let myself out.”

David stood straight and suspiciously eyed the blond. “How is it that you don’t know where you have come from? And how exactly did you ‘let’ yourself out? The creature you were dealing with doesn’t seem like the kind to leave doors unlocked.”

“Why so many questions?! Does the how, the when, and the like matter? I’m back! Aren’t you glad to see me?!” The answer was angry, and loud enough now  to rouse the dozing woman.

Lestat was agitated and David couldn’t put his finger on why. He also had no interest in causing a public scene, which he could feel was not far off if he didn’t act. The woman was awake now, he could feel her fear as she took in the sight of both of them. He felt strangely responsible for this woman’s protection and stepped in closer to his maker.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Lestat, but you don’t exactly get abducted every day, so of course I have questions.” David’s tone was calming, his gesture defensive as he moved casually away from the woman, his body language directing them both away from the now scrambling woman.

Lestat looked unnerved. Like a caged animal he eyed David with great scrutiny before his attention shot to the woman who shook violently when his eyes met hers. It happened so quickly all David could do was stagger back a step. Lestat had moved forward, snatching the woman by the neck in his iron grip and ascended into the dark sky. She hadn’t had enough time to even let out the strangled scream before he had closed off her windpipe and David was looking at the empty doorway where she had been as he muttered a curse. Glancing quickly down both sides of the street. No one had noticed in the evening bustle, thankfully. The apathy of those around and the dim lit faces staring down at mobile screens, he was, for once, thankful for as he leapt upwards after the other vampire and his innocent victim.

When David spotted the blond it was already too late for the woman he had thought to spare. He saw her lifeless body lying on the rooftop of the building she had been seeking shelter in. Lestat stood next to her and it was all David could do not to let his rage over-ride his reason as he approached his maker. The woman hadn’t even been drained, her neck was snapped and Lestat was staring at her dead body.

“Why did you do that?” The seasoned director was at work now, something was wrong and he needed to figure out what.

Lestat licked his lips again and after a moment looked at David with a nervous chuckle, his body relaxing as he shrugged. “Sorry, David, didn’t realize you were attached to this one. Last thing she needed to be doing was babbling about was men claiming kidnapping, right?”

The answer hung stalely in the air until he followed it somewhat lamely admitting, “I didn’t mean to break her neck, you know.” Lestat gave David the impression of a child, remorseful for breaking a friends toy. “She was just too fragile, like a bird.”

David waited, he knew it was best to let Lestat ramble. David would have to deal with his distaste over the mortals death another time, there were more important matters and the woman really did not matter to him in the big picture.

Sighing, Lestat scrubbed his face with his hands before one slipped through his golden mop. Stopping to rub the back of his neck, he looked around the rooftop, avoiding David’s eyes. “To be honest, David. I don’t know where I was, all I remember is a lot of pain. One minute I was in that gaudy library delighting in the fantastic little family we were all going to become and then the next thing I knew, that slimy black eyed prick showed up. I don’t know where he sent me but it was like I was kissing the damned sun again.”

“You vanished right in front of us.” David supplied casually. “If I recall correctly, he mentioned having provided you a warning. Which, of course, you ignored and so it seems you were being punished. What do you know about him and when did you receive this warning?”

Ice blue eyes ribbed with striations of cobalt met the coffee and amber tones and David’s own and he was unsure what he saw flash behind his makers gaze. Lestat shifted his weight to one side and snorted, tossing his head. “I am always being punished it seems.”

David wasn’t biting. He simply waited.

“Look, I don’t know anything about the demon. That night in the penthouse he just showed up, unwanted and interrupted my claim to the good detective. After he had willingly given himself to me, I might add.” Lestat sneered before continuing. “He seemed to think he had ownership of the man in some capacity and though I loath to admit it, I was weakened at the time and he over-took me. So I had to flee with my precious cargo.”

“And the warning?” David probed.

“Heh, how did it go now…? Ah, yes. That I was allowed to play with his ‘toy’ but not ‘break him’ though he seemed to have no problems with the rest of the fun I had with Sherlock. I’d venture to say I’m just not allowed to give him the dark gift.” Lestat seemed underwhelmed at the gravity of what he had just revealed. So David followed suit and gave it no special acknowledgement the confirmation of what he and Mycroft had speculated to in an earlier discussion.  

“Hm, so he gave you quite the spanking the first time you met and that wasn’t enough for you?” David cracked a slight smile, catching the indignation on his makers face.

“Shut up, David.” Lestat grumped. “I am hurt that you care so little for my tender behind. Where I was really was torture, even if I can’t recall where that may have been.”

“How did you find yourself back in London?” David asked.

Lestat’s face scrunched in thought, taking on much the same look one would expect of a person who had bit into a sour lemon. “Not quite clear on that either.” he offered up lamely. “I sort of woke up in the display window of a department store, sufficed to say the patrons and staff were as put off by the whole experience as I was.”

“You ‘woke up’ in a shop window?” David asked incredulously, unable to stop himself from repeating the offered information. It sounded just as ridiculous coming out of his mouth as it had his makers.

Lestat shrugged, “Well, I was screaming in an unknown black void of burning agony and then I was screaming in a shop window sans the pain. I took out a few mannequins in the flailing gathering of my senses and vacated the shop as fast as my speed allowed. I should be applauded on my restraint in not taking a few mortals with me in my exit! I was ravenous with hunger.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” David supplied with a sigh, glancing at the undrained dead mortal at their feet now.

“I took care of that inconvenience and then was regaining my footing when I happened upon you and here we are.” Lestat finished his recount with a stretch of his limbs, looking tired. He eyed the corpse of the woman, making a face. “Apologies again about that one, David. I’ve had a bit of a trying time lately which reminds me… how long have I been—away?”

David was still looking at the woman’s body as he answered, “Three nights have passed and this is the fourth.”

“Ah.” Lestat acknowledged, not seeming surprised. The vampire looked around before eyeing David expectantly. “Where has my little detective gone off too?”

David snorted, “When you finish answering my questions then perhaps I may answer yours.”

“David, don’t think I won’t just go off in search of him. If he is with John, I suspect one of Armand’s many safe houses are employed in keeping them ‘hidden’.” The word was drawled with an emphasis that clearly meant to say, there was no hiding from Lestat should he set his mind to finding them.

“Likely correct, Lestat, but I don’t see how you lose anything by telling me about what happened when you first encountered Moriarty. In fact, I think you should be more concerned with him then with your latest fixation.” David was trying to be mindful to not use his scolding tone of voice but his makers reaction was much the same as if he had.

“Hn.” Lestat’s arms crossed over his chest, as he walked to the edge of the building, peering over at the city below him.

He stood there, blond curls whipping wildly in the cool gusts that rose up from around them. David followed, standing a few feet beside his maker and assuming the same stance. “Why are you skirting my question?”

Lestat didn’t reply.

“I’m beginning to think you’re purposely not telling me something important.” David stated bluntly.

“Hardly,” Lestat spit. “The little shit showed up when I was about to turn Sherlock. That same night I had brought John into our fold, I had done so as a gift for Sherlock. Then when I was nearing the point where the man could not have survived without our blood that demon showed up and broke my hold.”

David waited as Lestat angrily continued his story, “He had the gull to claim that the man belonged to him prior to my involvement and then, drained as I already was from gifting John with my blood, I was in no state to defend my property. I don’t know how he got there, I was otherwise occupied. The devil was strong but I attributed a good portion of it to my weakened state. He got the upper hand and yet I was allowed to flee with Sherlock and so I did just that. He told me, like I said just a minute ago, that I was allowed to play with his toy but not break him.”

David waited as a quiet moment passed before he asked, “Is that it, then?”

“Aside from him blowing up the place once I left with Sherlock, yes. I never saw him again until that damned night in the library.” Lestat turned to David, looking exhausted. “There, are you satisfied? Can we just—talk about anything else—I have a splitting head ache.”

David eyed his maker, all at once the vampire Lestat looked his age. Not the mortal body, trapped always as a man no more than 21 years old but as the creature who had lived for over two centuries. The sight struck the younger vampire and he softened his interrogation of his maker. Lestat, for all his immortal years was still very much a young man who often found himself in situations so outside the scope of what could be imagined, it wasn’t always easy to remember to have a sliver of sympathy for him. Especially considering how often Lestat was the one to ignite his own powder keg of circumstances.

“Alright.” David’s tone was soothing, “You look like you need rest. Would you care to stay at my accommodations? I have a few errands I must attend to but I can meet you there afterwards and should you wish it, we can talk further.” Lestat looked pained and quickly David followed it by adding, “Or we can leave it for the time being but I am sure that you will also have questions once you are feeling ready to ask them.”

The blond stepped toward his fledgling, reaching out a hand and clasping David’s forearm, as he sweetly remarked, “Go fuck yourself, David.”

Then he was gone and his fledgling was left to ponder.

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

 

 

 

 

 

John’s head was spinning by the time Sherlock had finished explaining what exactly he had missed during his immortal slumbering.  It was a lot to take in and the detective had delivered the news in his usual arrogant fashion, assuming that his flat mate would be able to keep up with the spider’s web of deductions that he was inferring from small bits and pieces of the proceedings.  John had to stop the man several times and have him reiterate parts in layman’s terms in order to follow the twisted path this plan they were now putting into motion was taking, as well as to take a breather from the rash of migraines that plagued John when Sherlock’s feverish mind was at work.

This was one such moment.  Even though his pain tolerance was now super human, the information squealing through and out of the man’s mouth and brain were too much for the vampire to handle, especially when it had come to touch once more on the subject of his former fiancé.  Sherlock had complied, had even worked hard to tighten his restraint on the thoughts constantly bombarding between the confines of his cranium, so that John could just breath and soak it all in. 

The vampire brought a hand up to his temple, massaging slightly, his gaze cast out the window at the darkened landscape that whizzed past them.  The glow of the London city lights were behind them as they drove down the M2 towards Folkestone and the Channel Tunnel.  To stop the vortex of information spinning in his own mind, like the rocking drum of some poor old washing tub, he tried to let his mind zone slightly on simpler things, like the leather interior of the half-a-million-euro Maybach 62 Sherlock had insisted they take from Armand’s safe house garage. 

John would have never known that the underground car park was there if the detective had not shown him.  The simplistic appearing house hid a wealth of integrated features that spoke to the cunning and foresight of the ancient being who had designed it.  Armand was no fool and was well schooled in the ways of not drawing attention to himself, as Louis had tried to pass on to the newest vampire among them. 

As he zoned onto the greyish-tan leather of the interior of the now silent luxury car, John was glad that Louis was no longer by his side to warn him of his folly.  For that was truly what this was, a half-hatched plan to track down some rebellion leader with an ancient device capable of great supernatural powers that had ordered the murder of his fiancé.  It all sounded like the crappy predictable plot-line of a summer thriller, starring the most current and dashing tall-dark-and-handsome and his slightly shorter funnier side kick, with a pretty and mysterious woman thrown in on the side.  The vampire wondered again why he was going along with this, when he recognized, not for the first time since they had left London, that his life was not actually at all normal any more and that he should stop making comparisons for the sake of his immortal sanity.

The next thought that replaced the scrubbing of this one from his mind’s eye was even less pleasing: the memory of what Louis had shown him, that night in the penthouse, when he had lost it.  This had been the vampire’s own memory of what had really happened the night Mary had been murdered and the most disturbing part of it all was the prone form of himself, unconscious and unable to save her. 

If not for Louis, he too would have met the same fate and certainly now had come into the power to do something about the villainous death order.  Mary had done nothing wrong, had let nothing of her former life leak.  She had John completed fooled into believing that she was nothing more than wonderfully plain and quaintly companionable, like half a million other ‘normal’ women in London.  Mary had hidden her past perfectly.  There had been no grounds for her murder.  She had endangered no one. 

Now he had the power to see this right and he would see this through.

This supernatural realm that as a mortal he had never even once considered actually existed was now opening up wide before him, as unbelievable as it all seemed.  It was still hard to wrap his mind around his own powers, let alone the plethora of others that he was beginning to realize existed out there, unknown and undetected by most.  He was not sure that he could protect himself from this Ludvik’s telepathy, as new to this power as he was.  He could barely keep Sherlock out and in check.

John could see why this mystery woman would want their help.  A war between gifted mortals and supernatural creatures could not be kept quiet and could not end well for the majority of the planets helpless populous.  But could this Marisa be trusted?  Did her story about having been friends with Mary hold water?

“I don’t trust her.” Sherlock stated, having evidently plucked the thought either from the vampire’s own mind or from the look on his face.  From his face, John thought, to console his own agitation.  Sherlock spared him a brief glance from the road, explaining, “Marisa has not asked us to trust her.”

The vampire was incredibly confused, only increasing his irritation.  “Then why the hell are we driving half way across Europe to do her errand with nothing but her word?” he barked. 

The detective’s mouth quirked at the corner, his eyes crinkling slightly with mirth.  “Isn’t it just as much your errand as hers?” he asked. 

This was the truth.  They both mutually desired to see this Ludvik wiped off the face of the planet, if what she had told them was true.  John could not see how a war with the supernatural powers of this planet could end well for either side, especially now that he had flipped from one to the other—from human to…other.

Moriarty had done the same thing, had he not?  How else was he to possess such powers—powers even incredible enough to best Lestat.  Although John loathed and despised his maker, he knew first hand what cruelty the black-eyed fiend could wrought.  Moriarty had been at best a sadistic psychopathic butcher when alive.  He could only guess at what evil consumed him now, knowing only that the man’s own dark ambitions would grow.  If this Ludvik wished to start a war with the supernatural powers of this world perhaps it was because of power-hungry, depraved beings like Moriarty. 

Still, it would not end well for humanity.  Would they not be caught as the collateral damage between two vicious battling forces?  How could these two opposing powers wage war while still remaining concealed from the reality of the unsuspecting populous?

John spared a glance at the mortal man in the driver’s seat of the expensive vehicle.  The vampire could smell the adrenaline on him, pumping through him, provoked by the excitement of the mysterious adventure before them.  He could see the pulse of the blood through the carotid artery, beating the length of his long slender neck. 

The hunger that his own body traitorously gave in response made the immortal turn his head back away, to the darkness outside the windows of the car, as they sped down the motorway.  John thought of Lestrade, of Mrs. Hudson, and even of mousy Molly Hooper.  All of them were still his friends, still people he very much wished to see, wished to be around, wished to converse with again, that he would now have to forever remove from his life.  People who were still, and may always remain, in danger within his presence. 

They too may become collateral damage in this battle.  Innocence killed because of a senseless war, where no main party was worthy of winning.

“Marisa warned that you will have to steel your mind, John.” The detective pressed. “I am not entirely sure what capabilities telepathy all entails but of this we must be certain. Get all these emotions, all these thoughts out now. Experience them, deal with them, and then put them to rest. They leave you open to attack.”

The vampire huffed in irritation and chided, “Easy for you to say. You don’t seem to feel anything.”

The muscles in the detective’s jaw clenched tightly and John regretted his petty remark. “I can’t even control your thoughts from entering my mind, Sherlock! You drive me nuts with your—your bombardment! How am I supposed to block out someone who is trained and gifted at infiltrating, when I don’t even know how to shut the damn door? Maybe we should wait.  Maybe I should meet with David and…I don’t know—train more.” Everything felt so rushed and it bothered the soldier.  He felt like they were making a move half-cocked and that was always inherently stupid.

“We weren’t afforded that luxury, John.” Sherlock reminded him. “Marisa had said the call could come at any time and so it has.”

John just grumbled an expletive in response, knowing that arguing was moot at this point in the game. 

“Perhaps, you don’t need to block everything out.” The detective said, giving him a look askance. “Marisa had explained that one means of blocking out an infiltrator was to give them everything that they were not after.  To bombard them with meaningless, useless thoughts.”

“Like what? The football game, Sherlock? My cholesterol levels?”

“That would do, John, but perhaps I may be the answer you’re seeking.”

John screwed up his nose at his friend, looking across the luxury vehicle at him like he was a nutter.  “You telepathic now, are you?”

The man was growing increasingly upset with John’s irritation. “You said so yourself, John, that you could barely keep my thoughts out. Then when you need to, stop trying. Use them. Use me to bombard Ludvik.”

John was quiet for a long considering moment.  Then he chuckled and shook his head. “Let you into my head? I must honestly be desperate if you think I want you rummaging around in my brain.”

“Better me than him.” Sherlock replied, with a smirk. “At least I know what’s up there.”

“Ass.”

Nothing more was said between them as the time silently passed and the sleek car sped onward.  They crossed the channel into France and soon they had past through Brussels.  John could sense that dawn was drawing close and suddenly realized that he had failed to discuss this inevitability with his comrade.  John had not thought this part of the adventure through himself and quickly began to wonder what he was going to about the deathly sunrise, when Sherlock glanced at him and cheekily remarked, “You could ride the day through in the boot.  Would certainly help us to keep time.”

John’s head snapped toward his impudent car-mate, chiding, “You better be joking.”

“Only slightly.” Came the swift response, softened not entirely by a cheeky smirk, that did make John give a short chuckle.  Sherlock reached toward the interactive console settled between them in the oak interior of the vehicle.  His fingers quickly began to flip through the menus until he pulled up a navigation map.  He pointed out an area off of the main thoroughfare, that was small and slightly isolated.  “We will make a stop over here for the day, I think.  The town should be big enough to sport a reasonable hotel accommodation that will suit both of our needs.  We should make it there before sunrise.”

“’Should’?” John repeated, rather incredulously.

That earned him another cheeky smirk—one that John had been fond of seeing on his former lover.  “Will.” Sherlock clarified, as he turned the wheel of the car ever so slightly, taking an exit off of the main road. 

After another forty minutes the car was pulling up to a grand looking old hotel.  The town was small and quaint.  They exited the vehicle and checked into their room, where upon John discovered that there was only one large bed, grand in scale and size, with an elaborate mahogany frame and thick navy drapery.  The immaculately crafted bed took up much of the otherwise small room.  Sherlock walked briskly past his stalled form in the doorway, shedding his coat on the nearest chair, as he went about pulling the baroque-stylized curtains across the single window. 

“You planned this.” John accused, narrowing his gaze at the detective across the tiny room from him.

Without turning to face him, Sherlock continued to ready the room for the vampire’s slumber.  He unfastened the drapes that were tied to the tower spires of the four poster frame, sliding them closed along the outside of the bed.  “Of course I did.  I could not simply expect to move you from a secure vampire-designed house to just any other accommodation, now could I?”

The man spoke as if it were the immortal that needed protection.  John seen things entirely different.  “You cannot expect us both to sleep in that bed.” He warned, his voice icy.

Sherlock leveled the caustic vampire with a acidic sneer of his own.  “I hadn’t planned on it.” He stated coolly, as he briskly paced to the other side of the bed to draw the drapes closed.  “I do not suspect it would end well for me if I tried.”

That hung between them for a moment, as the detective finished drawing the last panel.  John was at once relieved and then confused, moving quickly to suspicion and worry.  “Where then did you plan on staying?” he finally made himself ask.

Sherlock crossed the room in four long strides, seating himself at a small but ornate antique desk along the wall.  “I will continue my work from here.  The hotel assures me that they have a decent enough internet connection.”

John must have still appeared apprehensive, for the detective’s shoulders straightened as his hands found his hips and gave a very exasperated sigh.  “You know I wish not to leave you here unattended.  The consequences would be dire for both you and the hapless fool that finds you.  We can co-exist together, John.  Why do you think I have been laboring so hard to experiment with our proximity?  This can work, if you just trust me.”

There was a brief moment where their eyes met, both men unrelenting, when finally, the detective moved to strengthen his argument by making some other point.  The vampire cut him off.  “Okay then,” he said, moving towards the bed, his eyes anywhere but on the brunet.  He shed his own clothing out of habit, sliding through the thick drapery into the darkened confines of the bed.  His bare skin was met with silken sheets as he pulled the blankets over him, once more a human trait that he was having trouble breaking.

John lay there silently, awaiting the sun’s full rise to force his body into the unearthly slumber.  Sherlock too was quiet, moving about the room only for a short time before settling at the desk with his laptop.  In those moments, John did not worry about his friend.  There were many ways that Louis had taught John to conceal himself during the daylight hours that he could have otherwise employed if he so chose to. But he didn’t. Instead, he allowed himself to be content in the familiar and comforting sounds of the man’s presence. 

 

***

 

David could see the lines of worry, etching themselves ever deeper on the brow of his current lover.  He massaged his temple with one hand, as the other flicked through an app on his mobile.  The light from the smart phone’s screen only magnifying the creases with the harshness of its blue light in the darkness of the study.  Worry did not become the man that David had known as a steadfast steely-faced youth when they had both been mortal. 

The vampire entered the room at a slow stride, coming towards the shrunken form of the man behind the desk, so encumbered by his fretting.  Mycroft Holmes’ face tilted up as his hand lowered the phone to the desktop at the sound of his lover’s approach.  The mask was quick to resume it’s place on the man’s features, attempting to hide what David had already saw.  He supposed that Mycroft would never take it off completely. No, not even when with intimate company. 

“Ah, David, you have returned.” He said simply, a greeting of sorts to fill the emptiness of the silent dark room. 

David reached his hand out to the lamp on the corner of the desk, flicking in on.  Warm light flooded the room and he caught Mycroft blink several times, as his eyes adjusted.  The vampire smiled warmly at his lover, as he came around the desk, leaning his backside against the ledge beside the chair the man occupied.  Mycroft attempted to return the favor but the endeavor lacked lustre.  David leaned down, drawn to the man’s plight by those lines on his brow, by the pain lingering behind those ice-cold eyes, and gently he pressed the suppleness of his youthful body against the mouth of his lover.  It was a chaste kiss, just long enough to demonstrate his empathy in place of verbalizing it, before he pulled back and informed the man, “I have met with Lestat.”

Mycroft startled slightly at this.  “He’s back?” the thin lips stammered.

David gave half a nod and shrugged his shoulders.  “I suppose one could say that.” He admitted, before he shook his head and elaborated, “He’s not himself.”

When Mycroft spoke, his voice was low and grave, as though he was unsure he wanted an answer to his question.  “What has the demon done to him?”

David answered truthfully.  “He said that he was tortured in some kind of black void and then suddenly reappeared in London.  He has no knowledge of where he was nor of how he was returned.  All I can ascertain from the strange encounter with him, is that he is not himself.  Lestat may not have entirely escaped Moriarty’s control, even if he has returned to this realm.”

The vampire crossed his arms, one hand coming up to stoke the sides of his chin. “I believe now that Moriarty’s power stems from some kind of demonic entity. He’s not possessed. In my experience with the like, I would surmise that he has somehow come into this power, although I haven’t the slightest idea how.”

Mycroft sighed heavily, his mind a wash with this information, already attempting to make inferences.  “That does not bode well for my brother,” was all he spoke aloud.

“Sherlock and John are no longer at the safe house.” The vampire informed his lover.

“I know.” Mycroft replied, “I received word an hour ago that both John and Sherlock have passed through customs into France.”

His mobile face down on the desk vibrated.  The man’s eyes flicked to it, before his fingers slowly picked up and turned it over to face him.  He gave a long grating sigh, as his other hand returned to massaging his temple.  “And now they are in Belgium.”

“Belgium?” David repeated, confused, “Where are they going?”

Mycroft looked up at his lover and the frustration was palpable.  “I have no clue.”

“They must be on the trail of Mary Morston’s killer.” David offered, as if to lighten the weight so terribly visible on his lover’s shoulders at the mentioning of this news.  It did not seem to have an effect.  “Do you want me to go to them?”

Mycroft shook his head slowly and reached out to take the vampire’s cold hand into the warmth of his own.  “No, my love, I do not think it would be our wisest decision.” He said.  “I have a few eyes on them for now.  I think that perhaps you should try to keep contact with Lestat.”

It was David’s turn to release a sigh.  He was not sure he could uphold that request and he admitted as much, explaining how his maker had ended their odd encounter.  This put Mycroft even more ill at ease.  “I have tried to contact him but he is not answering his mobile.”

“It rings now that he has returned?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes, but goes only to voicemail.” The vampire answered.  He had tried several times to contact his maker after his disappearance but always the number refused to connect.

Mycroft’s hand left David’s moving slowly to the vampire’s thigh, running the length of the lean muscle to his hip, as the man thought on this.  “Leave them for tonight.” He finally said, “Let us retire for now.  Dawn is nearly here.  We will try again tomorrow evening.”

David leaned forward and met the mortal’s warm lips.  Gently cupping his face between his hand’s he deepened the kiss and did as the lover had instructed. 

 

***

 

Sherlock worked throughout the day, filtering through hordes of misinformation and ill leads. The internet was awash with them. He had garnered more information in the fifteen minutes he had spoken with Marisa in the safe house than he had in the hours he’d wasted searching the internet for a lead.

The problem was the plausible fictional cover that the vampires had erected around the memoirs of Louis and his maker, Lestat. As well as those that followed afterwards. Sherlock knew now that these books were his true resource regarding the Talmasca. Unfortunately, of the books, he profited little from their knowledge. It was all second-hand information, one’s view and opinion of the organization, and not true information about the order itself.  
 

There was only the odd site out there that claimed the order did exist. But, they were chalked up as fanatics for a very real reason – they had no proof. Whether they had actually communicated with the organization or not, the problem remained that they had no evidence to vindicate their claim. So, Sherlock could not possibly view them as credible.

There was very little information known about the stone as well. He had concluded that, while there were some small amounts of information on artifacts such as this, there was no tangible proof that any of them held any kind of supernatural power. Many such artifacts were regarded simply as ritualistic, nothing more. He found nothing about the stone specifically.

His searching’s into Moriarty yielded the same results as the other two - a dead end. From reading the vampire’s fiction, he had concluded that it was possible that the man could be demon possessed, or be drawing power from whatever realm such creatures came from – seeing as he now had to believe that they did truly exist. The fiction claimed that vampires themselves stemmed from a demonic power. Given that the gifts that Moriarty had thus far demonstrated, Sherlock could conceivably conclude that the man was one as well. How else could one simply reanimate after eating his own bullet?

If Moriarty had known that he would reanimate, it would certainly give credit to his willingness to end his own life. It all seemed to be part of a plan. The madman may have known that Sherlock was playing along with his game. How? – One could only speculate. Perhaps he had played the statistics, the same as he and Mycroft had. Perhaps he had figured this as an outcome and had planned for it. Did that plan then include demonic power? Had all of the spider’s games, before the suicide, been part of the same plan? All the lore regarding such beings came to the same conclusion: a demonic force sought nothing more than death and destruction, for its own pleasure. That certainly seemed to align with Jim Moriarty’s MO.

The detective’s head ached. He massaged his temples as he thought. Sherlock was not sure if the pain he was experiencing was from mounting fatigue - he hadn’t slept in days – or from the strenuous research, which seemed to bear little fruit. How unrewarding.

Sherlock reached for his mobile on the desk beside the open laptop. The fan from the computer’s motor was humming loudly in the silent room, attempting to cool the overworked machine. He checked the phone for anything new, secretly hoping that maybe Marisa would have contacted him by now. All she had given him was a city, a time, and a promise. Could he trust her?

Of course, he had told John that he did not. He wanted to. He wanted to believe that this could be an end to it all. Not for himself, but for John.

There were no messages from the mysterious puffin girl, but there was a text from his brother. Sherlock wondered why the man hadn’t called. He had been fairly certain that his brother was not scheduled to see the dentist for the next month. Perhaps his mouth was busy with someone else’s – then he hoped that his latter though had been incorrect.

His brother’s message informed him that Lestat had returned to London and was under the influence of his rival. On that subject, Mycroft was only able to offer the same speculation Sherlock had already assumed himself.  Moriarty was demonic in nature or, at the very least, in control of demonic powers - which, of course, would be hard to ascertain and predict without first knowing what type of demonic power the spider had drawn from.

Mycroft assured him that the number of sources was innumerable, and with what little concrete basis of proper research available in mainstream reality, they were both like fish out of water. His brother lacked the resources to appeal to the Talmasca for held, and so the man could only offer his assistance if needed, nothing more. He knew that Mycroft would not leave his beloved city if he had no reason to, and he was awfully certain that the man knew where he was, even now. He always did.

The detective irritably flipped the phone back over, declining to reply to the lengthy text. He could not see how the man could help, even if he wanted to. He understood that his brother had accepted this fact as well. Mycroft had tried to keep him from discovering this immortal realm in the first place. He had likely known of it in some small capacity – enough to know that his little brother would be inexorability drawn to its power and mystery. Sherlock took full responsibility in involving himself within it, even if Lestat had thrust it upon him.

Sherlock rose from his chair, his muscles protesting the action. He stretched his cramped limbs and found himself yawning. His body’s frustratingly real need for rest was catching up to him. Seeing that the internet search was futile, the man decided to give it up for the time being. He moved to the bathroom, relieved himself, and then showered.

The bathroom was small and cramped, but it functioned well enough. The water, from the depressingly under-pressurized showerhead, was at least warm, helping to alleviate some of his tension. When he finally stepped out, the reflection on the mirror was yet another reminder of his infuriating fragility in comparison to a vampire’s strength and resilience. His gaze traveled over the purple bags under his bloodshot eyes, dulled with fatigue. He mapped the paleness of his thin body. His mind was only capable of registering all the ways in which he was inferior and vulnerable.

Sherlock thought of John. He thought of the power that the man himself now loathed. He thought of how he wished Lestat had not been interrupted that night – his mobile rang. The detective scrambled out of the bathroom. Wet hands fumbled to answer the call. A familiar female voice was on the other line. Sans the greeting, she simply asked, “How close are you?”

“We should arrive in another two nights, at the latest.” His response was curt. He did not feel the need to remind the woman that they could not travel during the day. She already knew.

“Understood. When I have a time for you, I will contact you again,” Marisa said before ending the call.

Short and sweet. At least that was confirmation that she was going to be there when they arrived.

Sherlock toweled off, neglecting to dry his hair, and pulled on some clean underwear. His head was nodding with the effort to stay awake now. The hot water and steam had sufficiently wiped out any of his last reserves to stay awake. The room was sparse on other sleeping accommodations, as John had pointed out earlier. There was a chair at the desk. He had managed it before and wasn’t keen on trying it again. His neck ached simply thinking about it.

The man moved to the giant bed. It was, after all, a king-size. He carefully drew back one of the drapes, just enough to see the still figure of the vampire within. John was, and always would be, a military man. He slept on the far side, taking up as little room – used, Sherlock supposed, to sleeping with less. He had not moved since he had laid down, a tendency that had transcended with the man into his immortal lifetime.

Sherlock was much more of a restless sleeper. It had always been a source of frustration between them when they shared a bed. There had been more than one argument about the war for the bed covers. The thought raised the corner of his mouth. He had always won those battles as well, ending all of John’s quarrels with a well-felled kiss. The almost-smile slipped. He doubted the tactic would hold water now.

The detective assessed his chances, running statistics quickly through his mind as he considered all he had ascertained from his daytime experiments with the immortal. With a nod of his head, he took the chance. Drawing back the curtain, he slowly crawled onto the bed, as far away from the immobile vampire as was possible. He did not bother watching John. He knew very well, if the vampire’s reflexive defenses triggered, he would never see the deathly blow coming regardless.

Once under the covers, with his head resting on the adjacent pillow, his outwardly limbs skimming the very edge of the mattress, he let out the breath he had been holding. So far so good. As long as he could maintain a safe distance from his bedfellow, he would prove that they could, indeed, share a bed. Seeing as John was not apt to move, it was entirely up to him to stay still. Releasing another long breath, he closed his eyes and shortly allowed his exhaustion to take him.

 

***

 

Sherlock stood unsteadily on the cushions of the long sofa. He’d pushed it back against the peeling print of jacquard wallpaper, to adjust a crooked piece of paper he had pinned there. His eyes scanned the myriad of hastily scrawled notes, all in red ink. Here before him, he had gathered all of the information he knew so far. They were grouped together to see what was fact, what was conjecture, and what was influential. He mapped them all with red twine, connecting each related item.

The genus’ eyes moved along the thought-map, from one theory to another, slowly confirming what he had come to realize in the shower earlier that day. Moriarty was not as stealthy as he made himself out to look. The wed was slowly starting to unravel. 

“Demon possession?” asked an incredulous voice. “Isn’t that a little bit of a stretch?” 

Sherlock grimaced at the crude thought. All his life, he had been blinded by the mortal worlds clouded sense of reality. He ran a finger along the red twine, from one of the notes that read the name _Moriarty_ , to another that read _Demonic Essence_. “You, yourself, are proof enough that such is a possibility.”

John didn’t answer the mild reprimand. 

The detective fixed one line and adjusted another crooked note. “You haven’t read them.” 

There was a low growl from behind the detective, and he could hear the immortal folding his arms in irritation. “I try not to associate with that bastard as much as possible. Why would I read his damned book?” 

“Enlightenment, John,” Sherlock said simply. He finally turned, jumping down from the sofa and stepping over the low coffee table to stand beside the doctor. “Lestat explains as much as is known about your species. In this case, it has brought an important fact to my attention.” The man paused in his explanation. “Moriarty was aided or possibly aligned with a demonic force while we were engaged in our little game.”

John grimaced at the detective’s word choice. “People died, Sherlock.” 

“Exactly,” the detective declared with a nod. “That’s what the demon wanted. The very point of a demon in many cultures is to exact death and destruction for its own pleasure. This, if you recall, is exactly what Moriarty was accomplishing with his game. Most cultures believe that demons are not of this realm and therefore do not have a physical body. Demonic possession is how they enter our world, and that is how Moriarty has resurrected himself from the dead.” 

“A demon is capable of that?” John balked.

“It makes perfect sense, John.” Sherlock countered. “A war with the Talmasca would result in widespread death and destruction. Exactly what a demon entity feeds upon and lusts after.” 

“That’s why Marisa wants us to take out this rebel leader? He wants a war?” the doctor queried. 

“Ludvik and then Moriarty,” Sherlock confirmed.

John let out a resigned sigh, raking a hand back through his glistening blond hair. Sherlock tracked the motion. He still could not quite believe how shiny the hair follicles had become with the man’s change. John cringed and asked the obvious question. “How do we even kill a demon?”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly to the right, forcing his attention back to their conversation. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.” He admitted.

John gave an incredulous chuckle. “That thing kicked Lestat’s arse. Royally, I might add.”

“Ludvik is the key,” the detective countered. “If he wants to start a war with the demonic forces, then it stands to reason that he must possess the means to fight them.”

“The amulet?”

Sherlock nodded his head, adding, “Marisa said that it amplifies an individual’s powers.”

John walked slowly away from the man, coming to stand by his chair. He reached out a slow hand, running it over the length of the back with familiarity. Sherlock could see the tension in the immortal’s face, mixed with an odd sense of longing that he could not quite understand. “You know,” John said in a low, careful tone, “I really miss this place.”

Sherlock considered the man’s words but, for once, remained silent.

John’s gaze lifted from the chair, to look across from it, at the other one; Sherlock’s leather seat. How many times had they sat together in companionable chatter? His attention shifted to the fireplace. How many times had they caressed one another by that fire?

“I like this place much better than… than your weird, endless library.” John commented, his dark blue eyes flashing up at the detective with a certain fondness in their depths.

Memories of John and himself, in this place, drowned his mind. Sherlock could feel the tips of his ears pinking with the rush of blood that flooded his face. Embarrassed, he coughed, responding, “As I have said before… I can make it any place I wish to conceive.”

John’s mouth curled up at the corners. “When you… were gone, the hardest part of it all, I think, was leaving Baker Street,” the vampire confessed in a hushed tone. “Mrs. Hudson, bless her, made a valiant stand against it. She didn’t want to deal with it either. I just… I couldn’t bear the thought of… of being there without…” He let out a soft chuckle that sounded closer to a choke. “…your weird experiments, your random violin playing, your mess, your silent contemplation. Without you.”

Sherlock swallowed hard but remained silent at the confession.

John picked at the fraying hem on the back of his chair. “Even harder, though, was coming back.” He swallowed, and his eyes changed then. They hardened, losing what little warmth the memories had given him. “I couldn’t understand it, Sherlock. I hated you for what you did. Then you came back, and you were here, and I couldn’t join you. Staying away was one of the hardest things I’ve ever committed to.”

Sherlock’s resolution to stay silent broke. “John, I-”

“I know why you did it. I get that now,” John finished as he held a hand out to silence he detective. “But it doesn’t matter… now, does it? Mary’s gone… and now this.” He waved a hand in front of his body before grumbling hoarsely, “I still can’t have you.”

“In this place, John, you can have whatever you want.” The detective reminded the sullen vampire. Before he could even finish the thought, there was a flash of movement so strong and fast that it ruffled his curls.

Lips were suddenly on his own, desperate and needy. Hands held him fast, pulling him tight to John’s hard body. Sherlock responded in kind. Possessively, he grabbed the hips pressed so deliciously against his own. His fingers fumbled, scrabbling to pull the tails of the plaid shirt from the confines of the other man’s blue jeans.  

Breaking the kiss, John met Sherlock’s eyes, looking at the mortal with a mixture of desire and uncertainty. It was an expression that was far too common as of late, and the detective was growing impatient with it. 

The frustration straining almost painfully against his slacks twitched, reminding his easily distracted brain of yet another way the other man left him aching. John hadn’t pushed back yet, hadn’t pulled away from his advances, nor had the vampire reciprocated with the same fever of their original encounter in his mind palace. The atmosphere this time was much the same, except, this time he and John were more keenly aware of the lucid dream state they were sharing. Here, there was no risk of physical harm to either of them. No limitations beyond what their own minds and mutual desires could conjure.

The shirt Sherlock had been fumbling with was now discarded on the floor, forgotten now that it was no longer a hindrance. John stood, bare-chested before him. He drew unnecessary breaths into his lungs, steady but shallow; anticipating what would come next. The lean body shifted under the detective’s gaze. Strong abdominals flexed beneath a soft layer of perfect pale flesh on the man’s remarkably hairless stomach. The doctor was nearly as white as eggshells since being transformed. The genius found amusement in the fact that the older man was now the paler of the two men. With Sherlock’s long fingers splayed across John’s belly, cataloging the pigment variances, he could acutely feel the nagging inner turmoil the other man was battling.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock demanded. His focus remained almost entirely fixated on the lean stretch of hard muscles on the exposed torso.

When John failed to immediately supply an answer the consulting detective lost the little patience that he had. He shoved the vampire with supernatural force. As John stumbled backwards, he launched himself at his companion. John was so surprised by the detective's speed and strength that he didn’t try to defend himself. John didn’t feel a real threat in this space. His instincts were dulled by the conflicting emotions that roiled in the back of his mind and his gut.

By the time John had processed the detective’s movement, Sherlock had him pinned. When they should have tumbled down onto the carpet, the whole space around them shifted like a kaleidoscope. When everything snapped back into place, Sherlock was straddling him, atop the man’s bed, within the Baker Street flat. He arched over John, trapping the doctor’s wrists above his head in a firm, yet gentle grip.

Memories of the two of them, years prior, in this same position, transcended between both men’s expressions and minds. Like liquid smoke, each felt the other’s variations. John swallowed hard, his eyes remaining fixed on the genius’s face. He took quick, darting glances between those piercing, ever-shifting cobalt and forest eyes, and the thin, pink lips. His mouth was quirked, playfully waiting for John’s answer.

“What is the point of this?” In contrast to their position, his voice was calm, resigned. Sherlock’s grip loosened at the words and John relaxed more fully onto the bed, not caring that he was still pinned. “Of you and I being here like this?” he elaborated softly as he looked away from the detective’s intense gaze.

He wanted Sherlock, of that there was no doubt. His mouth… John licked his lips, still tasting the man. His body… The scent of him lingered tantalizingly in his immortal nostrils. His entire being… The need to possess this man in every sense of the word was undeniably addicting. John could see the lust in the man’s eyes above him, tracking the movement of his own tongue across his pale lips.

“It’s the only place we can be close to equals, John,” Sherlock murmured, eyes still focused on the immortal's mouth. “Obviously we shall never be equals mentally. That much is a given.” Strangely, Sherlock’s tone was not laced with his trademark arrogance as he spoke the words. More, the casual tones of pointing out that he was physically taller than John – which he also liked to do – and there was no debating the statement. 

“Obviously,” John scoffed under his breath. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes as the other man continued without missing a beat. 

“Yet, when we are here, in my mind palace, you treat me and see me, not as some inferior inconvenience, but as the partner I once was to you.” Sherlock fully calculated his words to sting.

John hadn’t expected the emotional blackmail. His face scrunched up, and he moved to push the other man off of him, only to realize that he wasn’t able to. All of his supernatural strength suddenly didn’t account for anything, not in the construct of the mind palace. Sherlock looked as if he hadn’t even noticed that John was straining against him, which frustrated John even more.

“Whoa, I never-” John began. Sherlock cut him off as he pulled back, releasing his restraining grip on the doctor’s hands. He straightened atop John, legs tightening around the man’s hips.

“Shut up, John.” Sherlock countered. He clapped John’s lower jaw shut with a firm push of his hand under the man’s chin. The clack of John’s teeth reconnecting was quiet as the man’s eyes narrowed at the action.

“I want this, to become the creature that you have become, John. Vampirism has considerably more benefits in my world than disadvantages, and I do understand what I’m saying. Despite how preposterous this all seemed months ago, you are the proof.” Sherlock leaned closer as he spoke, eyes blazing as he tried to convince John. “You are the reality as much as Lestat or the others I have encountered.” Sherlock saw the offence John took to being compared in any way to his maker. There was a deep anger and guilt that rolled in John’s guts at the thought of the detective so willingly wanting to undergo this change.

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive, John.” Sherlock huffed. “Lestat told me that you were his gift to me, and I would be his gift to you. The exchange began when he took you and infected you with his blood.” The genius ran a slow hand from John’s collarbone to his hip before speaking again. “Transforming you in ways that I cannot explain and in ways that cannot be undone.” Sherlock’s tone was even as he lifted his fingers away from John’s beautiful skin and up to the top buttons of his powder blue dress shirt. His focus was on the complex storm of emotions behind John’s eyes.

“You are essentially immortal.” With a flick of his fingers, he popped the first button. “Not constrained to the loathsome decomposition of time and these fragile bodies.” Another went with the same ease. “Your restraints and burdens are few and pale in comparison to your gains.” The third opened, revealing a hint of the smooth line of his chest. “You must drink blood to survive and essentially shut down during the daylight hours, yet you don’t need to kill to acquire the blood you need to sustain yourself.” With every statement, Sherlock revealed more of his skin.

“Blood bank donations should be suitable, and if not, you have the ability to ensure whomever you do kill has deserved their end because as a creature outside of most reality, the real world’s laws only apply loosely.” With a lick of his lips, which left moisture glistening, he opened the last button and parted the silken material of his shirt.

John was tight-lipped, holding his remarks back as he hungrily watched Sherlock undo the buttons down his chest. The collar gaped, tantalizing John at the glimpses of smooth skin protecting the carotid artery. When the rest of the material was parted to reveal the pale and vulnerable flesh of his one-time lover, John firmly kept his hands where they were, at his sides. Sherlock had always been slender, but he was downright skinny now.  His hunger ebbed as he glimpsed the shadows of ribs under the broad chest, decorated with various scars and bruises. It made the vampire's heart ache a little to know that what had happened in recent months had this wasting effect on the consulting detective.

“Look at me, John.” Sherlock tore the shirt from his body, tossing it away. “Really look at me and tell me what you see with all your newfound powers.” The detective spread his arms wide, inviting the man to view everything.

The vampirical vision that the dark gift had granted John did not aid the younger man any. Louis had warned him of this as well. That to see mortals now with the fullness of their gifts, meant only that they would see the very real fact that as every minute of every second passed, they were slowly dying. This was the first time that John had allowed himself to see it.

He’d done everything within his power over the last few months to not look anyone in the eye, not even a glance askance. Sherlock was forcefully removing that self-imposed blinder. Now that John was truly examining the man sitting atop him, reality hit him like a swift right hook to the gut. It knocked the breath out of him. The vampire forgot to breathe, so lost in the zone that consumed him.

Sherlock was so vulnerable, so weak and stressed, and far too thin. These observations were all true. But what disturbed John even more than these insights, was the way his eyes could see deeper. He suddenly understood that he would come to watch the man grow old and die. Every hour of every day, he would watch, knowing that the man was one step closer to leaving this world, permanently.

His next thought was selfishly about himself, and his own damned eternity. He would be alone then, having lost everything that mattered to him. This was the insanity that Louis had warned him against so vehemently. John knew that this was the true disadvantage of the new life that had been chosen for him. The vampire’s eyes flashed up at the tri-colored orbs of the detective in response. Yet, he could not bring himself to answer.

“Your face betrays you, as always, John.” Sherlock scoffed, his tone growing more impatient as this sad conversation was allowed to continue. 

Nervously, John’s tongue darted out to moisten his lips. He forced himself to look away from the detective’s intense gaze. He had fought this exact moment. Had deflected this discussion with the deftness of one whose life depended on it. Subconsciously, he supposed he had pegged his morality on it. He would not wish this life on anyone, especially not those that he loved and cared for. John remained silent, unable to speak through the twisting thoughts in his head.

Sherlock’s face contorted with palpable frustration and rage. “This is what I want! This is my choice, John!” he hissed. Almost angrily, he leaned forward, running his hands down the cool perfection of the immortal’s chest. It was the same, yet so different, and some corner of his mind was already cataloging the differences, adding to his new knowledge base that was ‘John Watson – Immortal’.

The tone shook John out of his stupor, and with his own anger flaring, he knocked the questing hands away from his skin. “I know what you want!” he snapped, beginning to sit up. “You’ve made that abundantly clear!”

Consumed by the heat of his anger, his fear of losing this man to eternity, and his own frail mortality, Sherlock shoved John back down to the bed. He grappled John, pinning the man’s wrists above his head once more. John had always been surprised by the man’s unassuming strength, more so now that the balance of physical power had shifted between them so drastically. But, the doctor forgot that his vampirical gifts meant little within the confines of the mad genius’ mind palace.

“I won’t stand for it, John!” his voice rang out in the bedroom, and his fingers tightened around the trapped hands. “I cannot allow the time to pass and for us to be separated… permanently!” The tone was both piercing and growling at the same time as he vented his fury and his fear. “You were right! I have lost you once more. I failed you.” The words became harder to say, but Sherlock pushed through the painful constriction in his throat. “It’s my fault Lestat did what he did, and there is nothing I can do to reverse it.”

The vampires stilled under the onslaught of the younger man’s emotional revelations. He was not sure what this was. A confession? An argument? Or an apology? Most likely all three woven into one jumbled mess of words. Sherlock’s blazing eyes had cooled, something dark coming over them as they were suddenly glistening with moisture. The man was panting with exertion. Whether it was to keep in what he feared letting out, or the fact that he had quite possibly already let too much out. All John could do was repeat his name, confused by the conflicting emotions that both of them were emitting. 

Closing his eyes tightly, Sherlock’s head dipped, sagging between his shoulders. A long, aggravated sigh left his lungs. Then it came. “It was my fault, John. I could have prevented all of this months ago.” It was a guilt-stricken admission that not even John had anticipated from the mad genius.

The man’s voice was strained and stuttering as he squeezed his eyes tighter. “I faked my own death to save you, but when Lestat offered me the gift…” his eyes flashed open, desperation filling their depths. “I had not the time to consider all the ramifications…” his voice trailed off as he struggled to explain. Slender fingers tightened around the vampire’s wrists, as though he could force John to understand. “You were… you were still missing. I had failed even to find a single clue as to where you were, who had you, and why you were taken. I… was scared, terrified that I wouldn’t be able to find you, John.”

John’s brows knit together. They hadn’t spoken a lick about that time – when he had been in that penthouse and Sherlock had been trying to find him. John hadn’t cared after the roller coaster had derailed, crashed, and burned. He had been so focused on himself, so consumed with self-pity and rage. Only now could he see, could he understand, what all of this had done to Sherlock. 

Sherlock coiled back, once more letting John go. In a motion that John was sure that the genius was not fully aware of, Sherlock coiled in on himself. “I refused him, John.” The statement hung stagnant in the air between them. “I refused the gift, and he came after you,” he whispered brokenly.

Sherlock slowly raised his head, his eyes liquid, melted by the guilt and grief he exuded for this grave mistake. “But, can’t you see? All that has passed now, and I can’t change it. You can’t change it, either,” he pleaded. “I can’t lose you. You have changed, but so can I.” Something began to burn behind his eyes, brightening the once dull orbs. “We could be together-”

“Stop.” John’s sharp tone bit into the consulting detective’s emotional plea with a cold, dangerous edge. Red began welling in the vampire’s eyes as he sucked in a deep breath. “Don’t you dare make this out to be my fault. I can’t absolve you of your own guilt, and I won’t be the reason you decide to throw your mortal life away!” Propping himself back up on his elbows, he brought his face closer to Sherlock’s “You want to be this creature as well? Then do it for your own reasons, not because of me. You’ve done a lot of selfish things claiming that it was for me, and I’m tired of it. Your motivations are your own, they always have been.” Scarlet droplets pooled at the edges of his eyes before slipping free as he spoke. Sherlock listened, barely breathing, stricken by the impassioned words.

“Every bloody night I wake up and have a war with myself over leaving you.” The statement punched a hole in Sherlock’s chest as what little air he had, left his lungs. “I know that just by being around you, it motivates your drive to pursue this curse. I also know that if I just left, you would likely kill your damn-self trying to find me. At least it would be a man’s death, and not a monster’s.”

John’s lip quivered as he drew in another breath. He pushed on before Sherlock could find a proper retort. “That’s what I am now, Sherlock, a monster.” He let out a bitter laugh. “But you are right; there is no changing it. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible fate for you, but that doesn’t mean that I’m willing to kill the mortal man you are to make you what I am.”

“I chose this when Lestat gave me the ultimatum… to try to save you… and you wanting this so badly means that, in a way, I sacrificed my soul for nothing. I realize that we both will live a new fantastic, practically immortal life if you are changed. As much as I love you – you insufferable cock – I can’t tell you that I want to spend eternity with you, because I don’t know if that’s what I want.” The confession finally passing the vampire’s lips lifted a weight off John’s mind and heart that he hadn’t realized was so painfully heavy.

This was it. This was both of them pouring out their souls, full of fears, guilt’s, and doubts. They both felt the gravity of this moment. The reality that they were soon going to be at the end of this insane quest to bring Mary’s killer to justice, and that at the end, they would each need to decide where to go from there. Sherlock had said what he wanted. He wanted to become a vampire so that he and John could remain together. He wanted John. He had wanted John after the first night they had adventured through London in the pursuit of solving a mystery. That want had never stopped.

What John wanted was still on the fence. One minute, he wanted to be as far away from the other man as possible, the arctic circle for all he cared, just anywhere that the man wouldn’t find him. The next, he was longing for the Baker Street flat. To be sitting in his chair, reading the paper as Sherlock paced a hole in the living room, playing his violin in deep concentration. No words would be required, and when he would glance up to find the brunet’s unwavering gaze on him, his stomach would feel with teenage butterflies.

Now, in Sherlock’s mind palace, they were walking that same line. John wasn’t yet ready to choose which side to take. The two men just stared at one another in the quiet. Silently, they searched one another faces, unsure what would happen next as John’s tears stopped and Sherlock’s cheeks glistened with the trails of his own.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice, hoarse with emotion, finally broke the silence. He swallowed to clear it, “I’m sorry. I won’t ask this of you again.”

John felt Sherlock shift, rocking back to remove himself from his position on top. The vampire followed his motion, sitting fully up, wrapping his arms around the taller man, pulling him into a tight embrace. Even after listing the reasons John wanted to run away from this man, the pain in his heart lessened with the firm press of the other’s warm body against his own. Sherlock tensed for the briefest of seconds before melting into the embrace. He coiled his body around the other and stayed that way for a few, much needed moments.

The shaggy curls tickled the side of John’s face as his hands unconsciously rubbed slowly up and down Sherlock’s sides soothingly. The gesture was both needed and familiar, for both men. Despite their size differences, the embrace felt like they fit perfectly together, that they were made for one another.

This reminder made John want to sigh into the perfect crook of the other man’s neck and shoulder. Lifting his chin, John tilted his head to whisper softly in the younger man’s ear. “I’m sorry too, you know,” he admitted, hands curving to run his hands down the lean length of Sherlock’s back.

“For what?” Sherlock murmured. The words muffled against the vampire’s cheek.

“For not being able to protect you. For being used to hurt you and for not being able to give you what you want.” John’s eyes slid shut as he nuzzled his cheek slowly against the detective’s. The raging storm of emotions had left him drained. An odd calm and peace had settled over the both of them.

Sherlock shifted, extracting himself from the tangle of arms only enough to look into the other’s face. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“May I kiss you now?”

A hearty chuckle from both men rang out in the room, breaking the torturous malaise atmosphere that had descended on them. John’s hand dipped to the top curve of the other’s backside and gave it a sharp smack. Sherlock gave a satisfying yelp that was quickly followed by a low growl from between his gnashed teeth. He retaliated with a playful nip just beneath the vampire’s ear. John laughed softly as the detective’s mouth softened and laid a trickling trail of kisses along the length of his jaw until their mouths finally met.

With playful familiarity, they warred with one another for control. John allowed the younger man to push him back to the bed. Sherlock’s hands traced the familiar paths of John’s chest, fingers dancing over the smooth skin. His touch was determined, as though he needed to map out the vampire’s every surface all over again. The touches eased something inside John, and he relaxed into the curious, yet sensual exploration.

They had been together long enough for the detective to know all the little spots that sent John’s pulse racing. The genius found them now, implementing them one at a time until he’d worked his way down to the other man’s waist. With deft fingers, he finally flipped open the buttons on the fly of John’s jeans. Sherlock blinked, surprised to find his cohort only half hard. A frown slid over Sherlock’s features as he pulled back far enough to peer into the half-mast eyes of the vampire. “You’re holding back, why?” he demanded, in his familiar way 

John’s mouth curled into an unbridled grin. He was barely able to stifle a chuckle, which only displeased the detective more. As if in evidence, Sherlock rocked his hips against Johns, proving that he himself was more than ready for what he was proposing. Then enlightenment struck him. The detective sat back, straddling the vampire about the thighs as, as he announced his deduction. “This is no longer the same for you.”

John looked away, going so far as to lift a hand and cover his eyes. Embarrassment washed over his skin at the man’s deduction for his half-hearted interested in the physicality of their encounter. “Not quite,” he muttered. It was all he could muster for an answer.

“Does it feel different to you now than it did before? Or is it your body that responds differently to the actions?” The scientist was taking over, and what small humor John had felt at their predicament receded, along with other things.

Suddenly intensely disinterested in physically continuing, Sherlock’s gaze went distant as he began throwing out theories. In a matter of seconds, he had rattled off a rather long list of reasons why a vampirical body may respond differently to sex than a mortal one. Half, he immediately rescinded, before tossing out the next idea in a rush of thoughts. Suddenly he stopped.

Cautiously, John uncovered his eyes, just enough to peer up at the detective. Those eyes were blazing brightly with self-gratitude. It was an expression John was overly familiar with. They were lit with the same fire as when he had proven a theory of his right. Before John could figure out what the madman had figured out, Sherlock pressed his open mouth against John’s.

The vampire was only confused for the first half-second. Then the sensations hit him. The scent of fresh blood was in the air, intensifying the subtle thrumming of the detective’s beating heart which was always audible to the immortal. As the man’s tongue slipped past his parted lips, he brought with him, the sweet tang of blood. His senses flared, hunger and desperate need for this man rolling over him in a rush of demands.

John groaned with pleasure as he fought to control his mortal instincts. With blurring speed, his hands came up to grip the man’s head, fingers slipping into the array of dark curls. He held the bleeding mouth to his own, lapping at the open teeth marks on the other’s cheek and tongue. The vampire allowed himself to indulge in the unique flavor that was Sherlock. The potent pleasure of the taste filled his pallet as he greedily swallowed, again and again, taking the younger man in. Here, in this place, he could allow himself to take this. Here, he could take what Sherlock was freely giving, and he would not feel guilty.

Their moans mingled into one groaning sound that rumbled between their pressing bodies. Sherlock’s hands ran down the length of his chest before rising to his shoulders, nails biting into the marblesque skin. He rocked his hips against John, a shudder racing through his body as his own hardness encountered John’s full erectness.

John’s hips jerked up in response, need burning through him, following the trail of blood sliding down his throat. More. He nipped at the detective’s bottom lip, scoring a thin line into the tender skin. John groaned as a fresh wave of blood passed his lips. In a flash of movement, too fast for the detective to follow, one of John’s hands slid from his hair to coil around his waist, and he flipped them.

With a gasp that broke the kiss, Sherlock sprawled beneath the vampire. At the sudden shift in positions, Sherlock wrapped his legs around the other man, arching to rub the length of himself against the John.

John made a low sound in the back of his throat, one hand grabbing the detective’s arse, forcing their bodies into more firm contact. His other hand tightened in the man’s curls. He found Sherlock’s mouth. Desperate hunger filled him, and he sucked harder, wanting to score another line of red into the detective’s skin. With every drop of blood that he swallowed, his need grew.

Sherlock cried out under the onslaught, spine arching and his head thrown back as his body hummed with desire. With a low growl that had the detective shuddering with passion, John’s grip in his hair tightened, forcing their mouths back together. Sherlock tightened his hold on the vampire’s waist, his other hand coming up to fist the blond’s hair. He opened himself entirely to the older man, letting John take everything he wanted and more.

Their hips rocked in time, cocks pressing against one another in sinfully delicious friction as John rapaciously drank. John gave himself over to the force driving him, losing all thought but his raging desire for more. John needed to consume this man, needed everything. The passion-filled haze drove him one, clutching Sherlock tighter against him as he forced the detective’s mouth wider. The sound of slow clapping broke the haze of burning desire they were under.


	20. Chapter 20

 

 

 

The two men stopped. They were pulled apart by the sudden intrusion of the continuing sound.  John looked past the man atop him for the source, realizing only then that they were no longer in the mind palace.  His eyes darted back to the face over him, lips smeared with blood.  He pushed Sherlock back, a knee-jerk reaction to push the smell of that blood further from him, as his heart raced and his mind scrambled.  He could feel the heat of the blood on his own mouth, coating the inside, and settling in his stomach.  Sherlock righted himself onto one elbow. He was not the least bit concerned by what had happened while they had slept. His entire focus was on the here and now. His bright eyes blazed up at the intruder. 

The slow clapping finally stopped.  The silence that followed was ominous but neither of them dared to move. 

The curtains at the foot of the bed were raked back by what seemed like an invisible force.  The immortal moved so quickly that John even had trouble tracking him and suddenly the detective’s throat was in the vampire’s clutches. 

“Lestat!” John seethed through clenched teeth, his fangs bared at his maker. 

“Oh, good job protecting your precious Sherlock, John!” the other vampire exclaimed mockingly.

“Give him back!” John demanded.

Lestat’s grip on the detective’s neck tightened and lifted, bringing a wicked mirth to the vampire’s lips, as the man’s toes struggled to touch the floor. It had been a palpable threat and even though maker and fledgling could not share internal dialogue, John got the message loud and clear. In mercy or perhaps theatrics, Lestat brought the man down low enough that they were eye to eye, before he licked the perimeter of the detective’s red-stained mouth.  He smacked his lips together and gave a satisfied cluck of his tongue.  “He is irresistible, isn’t he?  There is something to be said for the bouquet of a Holmes’ blood.”

John slowly climbed from the bed, his entire body coiled like a cat’s, ready to pounce, prepared to attack.  Beyond his control, a low growl emanated from within him, a dark and sinister awakening of some feral instinct to claim and protect what was his, what had been being taken from him.  Seeing this only made his opponent guffaw with laughter.

“Oh, John,” Lestat mocked, pecking a dramatic smacking kiss the lips he had previously lapped, his blue eyes intently on his young rebellious fledgling.  “You don’t play nice.  You’ve damaged him and now I have come to take him back.”

“I won’t let you, Lestat.” John promised.

“Well, you’re certainly welcome to try. I doubt you will succeed though.” The blond said, adding menacingly, “Didn’t Louis warn you?  I _always_ … _get_ …what I _want_.”

The last word was punctuated by a thunderous explosion that rocked the entire hotel. Dust, flying debris, and rubble formed a melee of confusion. It blinded John, pelting his near naked form with wood and mortar shrapnel. As the smoke thinned it revealed a massive hole that had been blown through the outer wall of the small room.  He didn’t need to see the entirety of the room to know that his maker and the detective were gone.   

John cursed, as his immortal senses alight with the sounds and sensations around him. The commotion had caused all in the near vicinity to panic and as their screams filled the air, their hysterical thoughts generated a raucous cacophony in his mind that was nearly debilitating. He could not allow himself to succumb to this distraction. He closed his eyes and blocked out everything else, concentrating on what he knew was Sherlock’s.  His scent was there.  John locked in on it, no need to memorize it, it was already familiar to the vampire.  He dressed quickly, leaving everything else, and then left through the new opening out into the darkness of the cool night. He used everything his immortality gave him to utilize in his search, regardless of the fact that his chances of winning this battle were non-existent. 

Once outside he lost the scent trail for a moment, as he was bombarded by all the other scents and sounds that surrounded the area.  Just outside the small village he had to stop and collect himself in order to filter through it all.  After a moment, he was able to clear his head and hone in on the detective’s spoor.  Then he moved.

John had never let himself loose like this.  His body moved more like liquid rather than a solid physical force.  The world rushed past him in streaks of light.  His arms and legs pumped, his muscles moving his body in an unnatural way.  His nostrils flared as the scent of the man he hunted grew stronger and suddenly he stopped.

John felt the forearm without having seen it.  The concrete appendage had caught him in the neck and remained unmoving as his lightning quick body came to a sudden catastrophic halt.  The pain seared along his windpipe and then his back and shoulders, as the force of the collision whiplashed his body down into the rocky earth.  He felt the ground give way, rocked and stone and tree roots crushing and breaking beneath the weight of the impact, and yet he could feel that his body was still intact.  He lay there but a mere immortal moment, his eyes adjusting to the change of motion, as a fist came into focus. 

John pulled to the right, barely missing the blow.  Lestat’s hand smashed into the crater his fledgling’s body had created, sinking to his elbow, as John rolled to his feet.  Lestat was back up and once on his feet, he flew at John with another punch.  John dodged to the right and the fist punched through the three foot thickness of a giant beech tree.  The crack of the wood was ear splitting, as the massive thing toppled over, taking out several other neighbors before finding the ground. 

Lestat tried again, to the same effect, felling a large oak, before finally clipping his fledgling with a right hook that sent John flying.  His back collided with another tree, imbedding his upper body into the trunk of it.  Lestat came at him again, as he struggled to free himself, and John barely escaped a deadly head shot.  As Lestat’s fist missed, the fledgling connected with a knee to his maker’s stomach.  Lestat doubled and was crushed to the ground by a joined set of fists that drove down hard against between his shoulder blades. 

The young vampire was amazed that he had lasted this long, against one as powerful as he had been told his maker was.  John was never one to celebrate too early but the thought about why that may be did cross his mind. He threw another punch at the blond on the ground.  His maker rolled to the left and John felt the sharp crack of a poorly aimed kick catch his shoulder instead of his head.  Even though it was a missed hit, the blow still threw John forward with enough force to bury his face into the forest floor.  Although he had tried to right himself in time, Lestat was up and moving before he could even get a chance to ready himself. 

The next kick was right on the money.  John felt an incredible bursting pain hit his midsection—a boot to the gut—before a hand grappled the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric in an attempt to lift him.  The cotton gave, ripping away, and it was enough of a distraction for John to slam both of his flat palms into Lestat’s chest, managing only to push some distance between them.

Both men hesitated then, their chests laboring, as they eyed one another across the short distance.  The forest was pitch black but with their immortal vision it mattered little.  John could see his opponent clearly.  Lestat’s mouth turned up into a smirk, as he struck a casual pose, like a well versed actor taking a short break on set. He mockingly applauded his fledgling, gratifyingly admitting, “You’re stronger than I had hoped. The blood suits you, John, but you must know you cannot possibly beat me.”

The younger vampire managed to swallow his sarcastic response and instead shot a more pertinent pair of question at his maker, “Why are you here?! What exactly are you planning to do with Sherlock?”

A strange look twisted Lestat’s features for an instant before vanishing into a sinister grin, as the vampire stopped clapping. “Good Questions, John. Shame I can’t answer those for you without giving up my little game just yet.”

John steeled himself for an attack, as the blond levied him with a predatory gaze and lick of his lips. Lestat’s pupils were uncomfortably dilated, black engulfed the once ice-blue rings and a horrible pit of fear was welling in John’s stomach that caused him to reflexively swallow. This was different—something had changed. The doctor in him could see the physical signs of it—something warring for control inside the immortal predator.

 _‘It's Moriarty, John,’_ came a voice that pierced through his senses into the front of his mind. It was Sherlock. ‘ _Listen to what he is saying. Moriarty has control of Lestat!’_

John was in the pool all over again. Both in danger and neither able to do anything to save the other. The emotions of that memory and this tumultuous attack mingled, different and somehow the same. The spider taunting how clever and how powerful he was, not dirtying his own hands, but using those of another sucker under his control.

Lestat was then directly in front of him and without warning he was seized, both of his arms caught in an iron grip and held at his sides. Before he could think or say a word, John was struck hard in the face by his own fist wielded upward by the blond’s volition. This was followed by several more smacks in quick succession, as peels of dark laughter filled the night air.

“Stop hitting yourself, John! Stop hitting yourself! You did good. It was a valiant effort on your part, but I am sad to say that it was not good enough.” Lestat’s laugher was almost disembodied, seeming to engulf the air around them as he assaulted John with his own hand.

There was a sudden shift, like a light switching off and suddenly Lestat stopped. The older vampire reflexively released his grip, like someone had cut the signal from his brain to hands, the fingers opening and releasing without warning or warrant from the owner. John scrambled back and howled in pain, spitting blood that pool in his mouth from his own cut lips and broken nose. Globs of red droplets were spat into the face of his maker, still frozen as though paralyzed. The fledgling could not think, he merely acted, so consumed with the fight instinct that raged through his body. He pounced onto his opponent, not bothering to wipe the blood from his face or mouth. They toppled to the ground in a heap of limbs. John straddled the blond, who still seemed unable or unwilling to defend himself. Enraged the soldier laid fist after fist into the blond’s face, pummeling a vampire who simply lay there unflinching.

John was powerful. He was made from Lestat’s own blood, a thick and powerful mixture of all those more ancient with whom he had exchanged blood. However, John was still a fledgling. Power would develop ever greater over time. For now, it did not make a lick of difference. Each punch he threw knocked Lestat back, grazed off the marble finish of his skin and the iron strength of his bones, effectively wracking more damaged on the ground beneath his head that to the perfectly androgynous face of the blond vampire. 

 “I hate you!” John bellowed, in complete contempt of his own weakness against his maker, as he continued to batter the other. There was a part of him that screamed to stop, that the other hadn’t moved and that something wasn’t right. Despite this, all John could do was continue until he realized he was suddenly exhausted.

John stopped then, chest heaving. His own injuries had already miraculously healed through the power of the blood that ran through his veins, but the wet blood remained on his lower face, a grizzly reminder of the destruction wrought there. His maker lay unmoving beneath him, his bruised face slowly washing back to the pale perfect white. John had effectively accomplished nothing, even though he had used all his effort to damage that super-model face. Lestat’s eyes were closed and there were streaks of blood running from the corners of his eyes and into the mussy golden curls.

“Are you crying?!” The sight somehow did not satisfy John.  It made him angrier. “Did I manage to actually hurt you? Well _good_!” It took every ounce of John’s restraint to not begin pounding the others face in yet again. Instead he cocked his arm back while he grabbed Lestat by the scruff of his shirt, shaking him violently.

“Say something you bastard!” John demanded.

“I’m sorry,” Lestat’s words had barely registered with John before he found himself on his arse in the dirt.

The other vampire was gone. Simply gone.

John wasted no time searching for the bastard. He reached out with his mind and tried to find the familiar connection of Sherlock. Almost instantly the methodic words entered John’s mind from the consulting detective, ‘ _I’m safe, John. I’m at the car.’_

It took the fledgling vampire the better part of thirty minutes to return to the town where he and Sherlock had spent the day. Turns out the fight had taken them all the way into the Ardennes.  A good thing too or many people could have witnessed their immortal duel, or worse yet been hurt.  He was exhausted and although it had only taken him what he had thought was seconds to reach Lestat, he realized now that it had been slightly longer. Furthermore, he was unable to move at that speed now. He was still faster than most mortals could account for, but to him it was loathsomely time consuming and painful. His body had heeled but it was still aching. His muscles ached and burned, making the trek back grueling.  

Even worse was his thirst.  It was terrifyingly urgent, blindingly needy. He was forced to make a stop to satiate it when he happened up a small croft.  The family was inside fast asleep, and it took everything John had left to bypass the threshold and head for the barn.

There he found what would have to make do for the time being. A grey cheeky donkey and three cows with little calves. John used his mind gift to sooth the animals, so they didn’t brae or low. He encircled one of the cows by the neck with his arms, and sank his teeth into the animals thick hide. He gorged on the warm blood that filled his mouth and regretfully was unable to stop himself. He let go at the last minute, as the heart beat fluttered, and finally pulled back. The animal died moments later, its body stuttering reflexively before the heart gave out entirely. It took John a moment to shake the daze that overcame him as the blood settled in his system. He had drunk ravenously, and it had left him dizzy and light headed. The cows blood had a sour taste in comparison to the rich flavors of human blood and he was already disgusted by the way it sat.  At any rate, it had taken the edge off the hunger he now felt.

During his indulgence, the passivity he had laid on the animals had worn off. Now at the sight and smell of the other dead creature they were beginning to panic. The donkey’s brae was the loudest and John could hear the farmer lifting from his deep slumber in response. He recouped his senses, enough to nip his finger and close the wound on the cow’s neck with his own blood, before stumbling out of the barn and back into the night.

It did not take much longer for the blood-daze to be replaced by the rejuvenating effects of the nourishment and soon he was running once more. He was thankful the moment the lights from the small village came into view.

As he neared the perimeter of the houses he could see the resulting commotion of emergency vehicles and their flashing strobe lights gathered outside the crumbling hotel. Closer still he could see that the entire building had been sectioned off with yellow tape and a team of police guards. People were gathered about the scene. Some were bystanders, some were just curious locals, others were those that had been released from the hotel, still in shock and crying. He could smell sweat and fear in the air, mingled with blood and tears.  People had been hurt in the explosion. The doctor felt a wave of guilt wash over him and he had to fight the tide back, knowing that there was little he could do about it now. His main focus still remained the detective.

The vampire found the tall brunet sitting in the driver’s seat of the luxury car they had loaned form Armand’s safe house.  The car had been moved to the other end of town, parked outside a petrol station. It was fueled and ready to go. Sherlock was dressed and had pushed the seat back, so he could fit the laptop on his lap comfortably. He sat and typed away, the white illumination from the screen casting an eerie glow in the car’s interior. John gave an exhausted sigh and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and slid into the seat, his head flopping back against the headrest as he took a moment to relax. Sherlock was here. He was safe. Lestat was gone. He rolled his head to look over at the man, who still had not yet acknowledged his return.

“What the hell was all of that about, then?” John finally asked, after another frustrating minute in silence.

There was no response, as fingers typed furiously across the keyboard.  The vampire’s initial instinct was to cuff the insolent prat across the back of the head, but he was too worn out and had started to feel a queasy sense of nausea linger at the back of his throat.

When the lightning quick tapping finally ended, the laptop was snapped shut and very brusquely dumped onto the back seat of the car.  John’s gaze followed the electronic, in disbelief that the detective would just toss such an expensive piece of equipment with such disregard, when he noticed that the bag Sherlock had packed was also in the backseat. 

The idea that Sherlock had been back at the hotel long enough to get dressed and pack their things was mind boggling. Lestat must have circled back and dropped him off or maybe taken him back when he left—it didn’t really matter, so he tried not to think about it. 

Sherlock finished a quick text on his mobile and finally answered his question.  “That was Moriarty.”

John glanced back at the man behind the wheel with his brows raised. “On the laptop or your mobile? Is he sending you texts now?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes heavily in exasperation, as he grumbled, “No, John. If you had not been so blinded by hatred you would have seen it too.”

John followed, sarcastically, “I got your message. The one you sent while I was getting the piss kicked out of me. And by the way, I did have my own suspicions, thank you very much.”

The detective’s eyes lit up at the prospect of their mutual mental connection and the vampire could see him internally cataloging the distance they had permeated, when John brought the focus back to their conversation. “Do you think Moriarty has had been involved this whole time?” 

“I’m not sure how long or to what extent but one thing is clear.  Moriarty has some control over Lestat.  I had my theories before but I just couldn’t nail down how he was doing it.” Sherlock explained in a rush of words.  “All that doesn’t matter now.  Marisa texted me an address.  We need to get to Prague now.”

“Does all that really matter if Moriarty is controlling Lestat?” John asked quietly, his worry clear on his marble features. John licked his lips, mulling all of this over, before he admitted, “Sherlock…at this moment, I am not sure I care who killed Mary.  Moriarty is after you.  Why are we traipsing half way across Europe to settle a vendetta when that creepy eyed bugger is on the loose?”

Sherlock’s hands gripped the steering wheel, as the detective started the engine.  “It’s all part of the web, John.” He said, as he flipped the car into reverse and backed away from the building. “Marisa, Ludvik, Lestat. We are all being manipulated like unthinking marionettes. Just trust me. We need to get there. Now.”

As the car was flipped back into drive and began to pull forward, John’s nausea went from a tickle to a real threat. He doubled forward and put a warning hand out, like a drunk in a cab, and the detective instinctively applied the brakes. The vampire threw the door open just as his last meal projected out of his mouth in a torrent of red vomit, splashing out onto the gravel.  One heave was not enough. His body was determined to get rid of the lot and his diaphragm convulsed another three times, until he merely coughing up spittle. The dizziness had returned, as well as his ravenous hunger, that insatiable thirst that would be his curse for the rest of eternity.

“Are you…alright?” he could hear Sherlock ask from the driver’s seat, somewhere behind his hunched form.

John collected the putrid coating of the remnants in his mouth and spat. Then he wiped at his mouth and hauled himself back into the seat, panting with both exhaustion and the need to feed, a terrible mix that made his head hurt.

“Sorry,” John murmured out of habit. He could barely get the words out. “Apparently, beef is off the menu.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, for the first time finding something about John’s immortality that wasn’t to his palette. The detective reached behind him in the car, fishing through something in the back seat. When he sat back, he tossed John a couple of plastic pouches, that landed on his lap with a plop. “This may help.”

The vampire looked down at the gift and then the plastic was popped and sweet tangy human blood was filling his mouth. John moaned in appreciation, as the nausea receded, and the thirst slowly dissipated to a dull ache in the put of his stomach. He finished them off, one by one, growing less enthusiastic as he went through them. As his hunger was pushed down his mind began to wonder just where the packets had come from.

“I took the liberty of filching some from the ambulances. Thought they may be useful.” Sherlock explained, as he put the car in gear again. He steered them out on to the main road in town, heading in the direction of the motorway.

As the vampire finished the last off, he began to feel guilty. He had caused most of his own trouble. He should have known better than to gorge on the cow in the barn. He could have gone into the farm house and taken the ‘little drink’, as Louis had taught him. He knew that animal blood could sustain him, but draining the whole damn cow had probably been his undoing. For once he thanked Sherlock for this insight and forethought. The blood was not from a living source and was therefore not nearly as satisfying, but it would settle him until they stopped for the dawn. He would need to feed then, before giving into the immortal slumber if he hoped of recouping fully. That and it would help him stave off the seductive aroma of the detective’s pumping heart.

The car flew down the road, heading back to the E40, sleek as a bullet through the night. John was surprised by how late it was already. Google Maps told him that it could take another nine hours from their current location to reach Prague. This meant another day in a hotel room, which the vampire did not look forward to. Not only would it drive Sherlock nuts to be delayed, but John would have to give in to the immortal slumber while the detective was crawling up the walls.

As if sensing his companion’s anxiety, the brunet, suddenly explained. “I told Marisa where we were and that we would need another day to travel. The meeting is set for tomorrow night. You will need to recoup until then.”

The spent vampire let his body go loose against the finely crafter seats of the car. He had never felt exhaustion like this before and his medical training made him wonder if a mortal even could. His entire body pulsed with bone grinding ache that seemed to resonate through his muscles and joints.  It felt like blood pumping continuously through his circulatory system and after a moment of deliberation he supposed that it might very well be the case. His body was working as hard as it could to make up for the trauma he had sustained. He cursed himself for finding his unnatural strength and resilience absurdly fascinating.

As much as he wanted to sleep he would not allow himself to succumb. Instead he turned to the quiet detective, who he knew was deep in thought, no doubt somewhere between the doors of the mind palace and reality. Just deep enough that he could still drive and respond to stimuli.

John thought about them crashing and burning in a heap on the side of the road if his estimate was wrong and the detective really was too distracted. He tested the theory with a quick call to his friend. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” came back a quick response that set the vampire at ease. He was distracted but as he had calculated, the man was still with it enough to drive safely.

“Who is this girl?” John asked, more to keep himself awake with conversation rather than curiosity. “You haven’t really explained her yet.”

“I’m not sure I really know yet.” Sherlock answered, with a little shake of his head. John could see the man rebuking himself silently over this fact. The detective always prided himself on reading people easily.  “She is an anomaly. She is human, but she has demonstrated increasing irregularities that lead me to wonder otherwise. She has a very unassuming manner about her. I did not even really consider her to be involved in any of this until she showed up at the house the other night.”

John consider this. It was something to pull the wool over the genius’ eyes. John realized now that he had sensed a presence in the house when he had woke or perhaps it would be more apt to say that he smelt the remnants of a presence. That remnant now that he thought more about it had a slight familiarity to it. “You know, I could tell that someone had been in the house.” He mused aloud.

“Really? That’s interesting. Marisa had left the premise an hour before dawn. Your olfactory receptors are particularly more powerful than I first thought. What else did you sense about her?” the detective had turned scientist like the flip of a switch.

“The scent was…somehow familiar.” John replied, trying to make sense of the memories that surfaced when he tried to recall the scent. In his mind’s eye he could see a face. He could see his hand reaching out and shaking the delicate white digits of a woman’s hand. “Does she have red hair?”

Sherlock did a double take, stuttering, “Y-yes…how did you…” The detective screwed up his nose and thought a moment before finishing the sentence. “How did you know that?”

“I don’t know really.” The vampire admitted, with a nonchalant shrug.

“You said you could smell her and from the smell you remembered a face…” It was not a question. Sherlock recited the information, considering, and then his eyes grew wide and he exclaimed, “The Proustian Phenomenon.”

“Olfactory memory.” John elaborated. “I suppose the dark gift may increase such a sensation. But that would mean that I have met her.”

“And you have.” Sherlock confirmed, “She told me that she met you once when you were first dating Mary. As I understand, they were not on the best of terms, so it was no doubt a very brief meeting.”

“And you met this girl…” John dropped the last end of the question, hoping the detective would get his drift. Sherlock never really had explained what he had been doing during the time that John had been with Louis in Canada.

“Lestat left me in the far reaches of the Hebrides to recover from the blood loss I had sustained at his hand in the penthouse. Moriarty made it clear that he was not to turn me so to keep me alive I had to take several transfusions. I’m not sure how he accomplished that. He also gave me a nasty drug cocktail to keep me docile. It was enough to send me back through withdrawl, which was not in the least bit pleasant. Marisa was my Keeper.” Sherlock explained, eyes telling of a struggling time that he did not really want to recall. “I have no idea where Lestat was during that time. I was with her there for several weeks. She had a small croft and was conducting an evaluation on a colony of puffins. We spoke little. Argued mostly. And when the damned vampire finally returned for me, she took her pay, and we left.”

“Where did Lestat take you?” John inquired softly, interested but still exhausted.

“Back to London. Back to Baker Street.” The detective answered. He sounded forlorn one minute and then a soft chuckle made his voice fond again. “Mrs. Hudson was upset but she was glad at least I was back, even if I was half mad. Lestrade was angry. Everyone wanted answers, wanted to know where you and Mary were, and I had nothing to give them but excuses.”

John was quiet and so was the detective. “They no doubt thought I’d finally lost it.” He said, adding cynically, “As much as I maybe portrayed that no one considered us lovers, I am afraid that it is us who were blind. I’m sure it was not a leap for many of them to conclude that I must have had some involvement in your disappearance.”

John tried to stifle a laugh and it came out a snort instead. Sherlock looked wounded by the insult. John tried to explain himself and failed miserably. Finally, he settled on admitting, “Looking back on the situation, it’s actually a very apt motive.”

Sherlock smirked. “Genius detective returns from the dead, seeking vengeance against gay lover’s new fiancé.”

John laughed again. It was not the hilarious sort of Sunday laughter you might hear over tea, but rather the sad darker thing that you sometimes hear after one has overcome great grief. They let the chuckles settle and melt between them, savoring the moment for as long as they could before having to return to their new supernatural realty.

“When Louis told me that Mary had a double life, I fought believing him. I thought he was a nutter.” John chuckled again, “and then he bit me and, well, having your blood sucked out and someone else’s memories forced into your brain, you kind of start to question what is fact and what is fiction these days.”

This comment piqued the detective’s interest. “You mean to say that Lewis was able to show you his memories through a blood connection?”

“His name is Louis, Sherlock.”

“Does it matter?” the detective snapped peevishly.

“People do like to be called by their actual name.” John said. He got what he wanted. Sherlock looking pissy and petulant. “And, yes, that’s the best way I can describe what happened. He wanted me to stop trying to escape, was trying to explain that I was in trouble. The same people who murdered Mary still wanted to kill me and I was not bloody well going to believe him. So, he showed me what happened that night. He had been there. He stepped in and, well, saved my life. I’m just regretful that I hadn’t been able to save Mary’s. 

“I too regret that. Very much.” Sherlock said, sounding guilt stricken. It was an odd emotion to hear on the detective’s voice, but John appreciated it. “I caused you a lot of grief with my…unceremonious return into your life. I just…I didn’t think.”

“That is an understatement.” John shot back. It didn’t sting as much as it could have. “I almost strangled you that night. You and that damn mustache you penned on your upper lip. Mary thought you were darling. She giggled for a good week after that and it killed me to hear her think on your trick so fondly.”

“It was a good trick.” Sherlock confirmed.

“She thought so anyway. I’m still on the fence really.” John answered.

They were quiet for a long time then. John watched the scenery whiz by through the window, drifting off now and again as Sherlock drove on. His conscious mind lulled between dreaming and analyzing their situation. It was a lucid time, with fact and memory and dream mixing like paint, combining and becoming something new entirely. He kept thinking about Mary. 

He thought about her beautiful smile and endearing heart. He thought about how she had taken him in, broken and abused, and brought him back from the brink of a self-indulgent suicide. This version that he knew of her kept morphing into what he was being told, into who she had been before him. This dark mysterious woman, with cold eyes and a steady gun hand. As she became this sleeker darker visage of herself, the red-haired Marisa appeared always behind her. A pale face watching from over Mary’s shoulder, half obscured by shadow.

 More wicked still was the strings he sometimes seen attached to the pairs joints, leading to the marionette’s paddle.

The vampire felt his body jerk and his eyes flashed open. Sherlock’s grip turned the wheel sharply back and the car came back into its lane, only garnering a few honks from passing motorists.

“Sorry, John,” the detective responded, “just some debris on the road.”

The dreams had been unsettling and the thrashing movement of the swerve even more so. John mustered the resolve to stay awake, yet he couldn’t get the imagery out of his head. The thought haunted him. Perhaps Moriarty had orchestrated it all. The fall, his own death and subsequent resurrection, Mary’s death, and John’s vampirism. What John failed to see was the spider’s end game.  What was the point of it all? Could one really chalk it all up to boredom? Surely no one was honestly that callous. 

If anyone was, it was Jim Moriarty.  Had he not used people as living bombs in a game to entertain himself? To challenge Sherlock into a battle of wits? He really had won. The pool had hardly been the end of that game and the roof top had not been either. They were still playing.

John crossed his arms and asked the detective, “Where do you suppose he came across the power to overcome death? It’s not vampirical power.”

“Mycroft and David Talbot think that it’s demonic power.” Sherlock answered. “We don’t really have any concrete proof, but I believe it’s our best theory.”

“Demonic?” John repeated, sounding incredulous. “Like the devil demonic?”

Sherlock bobbed his head again in that see-saw motion that meant ‘not quite’ or ‘yes and no’. “Demonic power or the ideology of it predates Christianity and pervades almost every culture past and present to some degree. Even vampirism is demonic at its core or so it is said.”

“In the books you mean?” John questioned.

Sherlock nodded his head, before elaborating, “As best the vampires themselves know, vampirism can be linked back demonic possession.”

“And you think that is our best guess with Moriaty?”

“I believe so, yes.” Sherlock replied, explaining simply, “The larger problem does not lay, however, in the type of power itself but from whence it came. I suspect Marisa may know more on the subject, but I made the inference to late to question her about it.”

“Do you think that she is in league with Moriarty?” John asked the burning question that Sherlock did not want to think about.

“I think she is,” he said, and then quickly amended, “against her own will.”

“So then...” The vampire mused, before cracking a crooked grin at the detective. Affably he demanded, "rock me, Amadeus."

“What?” Sherlock sputtered. He rifled through his mind palace in search of the reference he was obviously missing, appearing for all rights and purposes utterly baffled.

John enjoyed this very much--pulling one over on the detective. It was a low blow, seeing the detective considered pop-culture unsuitable for his own retention, but there were very few places where he could get anything in on the man. He chuckled at the man's comically scrunched face, as he attempted to search his hard drive for a hit, and casually explained, "Just hit me, genius, with your best theory. How did Moriarty get this power?” he reiterated.

Sherlock’s tongue licked his lips absently. “My guess would be that Moriarty, the consulting criminal was contacted by a demonic force. Demons seek destruction and chaos, they feed off of it, and as Moriarty was capable he was an easy means to something’s next few meals. It may have started out with possession or perhaps an exchange, power for chaos, but Moriarty is too smart to be controlled. I think he usurped the demon, put the game into motion, killed himself, so he could resurrect as the demon we now know. I think what started out as a means to end an eternal loathing of boredom, has turned into a supernatural game of power and control, fueled by the unnatural cravings of the demonic force he took over.”

John huffed a chuckle and pointed out, “That’s a double-double cross. Moriarty crossing the demon and the demon crossing Moriarty.”

“It’s more a melding of personalities. One believing they are in control of the other, when in realty the two have become one being.” Sherlock clarified.

“And Lestat? How long has he been controlled?” the fledgling asked.

“To my estimate, he has been heavily influenced up until the point where Marisa completed her task of caring for me on the island.” Sherlock explained. John gave him a quizzical look. “Her payment was a sum of money and a vile of Lestat’s blood. I think she was already being coerced by Moriarty. He put her in that place, so she could retrieve a vile of the vampire’s blood and somehow having that blood has given Moriarty enormous powers over the vampires and control of Lestat. That’s why he took Lestat from my brother’s library. He had to assert his control over him, so that he could send him back out as an agent of his demonic desires.”

John was silent. Sherlock sent him a glance, trying to ascertain why, when the vampire finally uttered a gobsmacked response.  “Wow.”

“It’s a working theory, John.” The detective complained.

“No, I think it actually makes sense.” John affirmed. “Louis had felt that Lestat was acting out of character. Not enough to suspect some kind of outside manipulation but enough to seem odd.”

“Lestat is known for his eccentricities.” Sherlock agreed. “Enough so that his aberrant behavior would still appear plausible.”

“Do you think that Louis coming to Baker Street was orchestrated?” John wondered.

“No.” Sherlock disagreed. “I believe that his interest was genuine. I think Lestat’s was, as well, to start out with. Lestat had been the one to lay out the baffling murders for us to follow. A means of getting us to perform for Louis and himself when they had first arrived in London. I think Moriarty seen the vampires as an opportunity to up the ante.”

“Then what about this stone, Sherlock, and this rebel leader?” the vampire questioned. “I think it’s safe to say that we are still being manipulated here.”

Sherlock nodded. “I can’t say for sure, but the stone has a piece to play in all of this for Moriarty. I just haven’t figured out exactly what that part is yet.  For all intents and purposes, it would make more sense for Moriarty to leave the stone in the hands of the rebel leader, especially if he intends to incite a supernatural war.”

“But Marisa wants the stone, so is that really Moriarty then?” John said.

“There in lies the risk.” Sherlock confirmed.  “Ludvik ordered Mary’s death. Marisa was true there. Despite Moriarty’s agenda, getting the stone away from Ludvik is imperative. We just need to control the stone after that point.”

“We know nothing about this stone?”

“Very little.” Sherlock replied.

“That concerns me.” The vampire insisted, expecting a proffered conclusion.

He didn’t get what he wanted. All the detective was able to offer, was an affirmation that left John’s disconcertion unappeased. “I as well.” He said, with earnest.

The dawn was approaching, the vampire could feel it with every fibre of his being. As the car made its way into the ancient city, they found a hotel and made suitable arrangements for the evening. Finding a room with little outside light was harder than one might think, but they managed it, with a few minutes to spare. This left John even more on edge as the dawn brought on the immortal slumber that left him unconscious on the bed.

Sherlock did not want to sleep. He wanted to watch over the incapacitated vampire on the bed, to make sure that the room was undisturbed by some bungling mortal. This hotel was less suitable than the last had been, lacking the secondary defense of the large four poster bed with the heavy drapes. The detective made a good effort of trying to occupy himself with planning and research. He scoured the internet for more information on the stone, checked maps of the area, renewed his knowledge of the city and its history, all to be woken from a short nap in his chair at the desk. This left him groggy, with a headache and a stiff neck for his efforts.

The mortal had intended to wake before his cohort, as much to appear that he had not failed in his vigil as to take up the post once more. He was surprised to be woke by a soft nudge at his shoulder, followed by the press of cool lips against his temple and then his mouth—sending him into a dazed state, lost between the memory of such pleasing wake-up calls in the past, the thought of it all being a dream, and the very real sense that this was unbelievably his reality once more. It took him a moment to shake the disorientation, which all but vanished the instant he sensed the vampire’s palpable trepidation, of which he had meant to alleviate with his failed vigilance.

They rose and prepared for the meeting with Marisa, which would lead them finally to Mary’s murderer, Ludvik Prochazka. They shared many of the same things they had as lovers in their previous life together; undressing, showering, and shaving—all of which lacked any gratification. The entire process, a scenario the detective had lavished in his mind the many long cold torturous nights he spent without John beside him, was soured by the daunting tasks to come, leaving both of them heavy and mechanical, as they prepared for what was to come.


	21. Chapter 21

 

 

 

Sherlock glanced up at the large ornate hands of the gilded clock face that towered over the stone square in the heart of Prague.  Even at this hour the area was crawling with tourists and locals.  It was the perfect inconspicuous place to meet Marisa.  John was nervous, his agitation apparent in the way he held his shoulders, the way he moved, and in his silence.  The detective could tell this was caused by the milling crowd of tourists, who gazed up in awe and amazement at the craftsmanship of the astronomical clock that overlooked them all.

The fight had been taxing for the fledgling vampire.  His hunger had been greater than either of them had suspected. Even though John had taken the precaution of feeding just before dawn and now again before they arrived at the square, the thirst cloyed at him now that he was surrounded by hundreds of beating hearts.

They had been waiting here already for forty minutes without a sign from Marisa.  Every minute longer was making the vampire more anxious.  Sherlock was beginning to ascertain that perhaps it would be in their best interest if John relieved himself of this tension further. It would not do either of them any good if John was this distracted.

The detective took the initiative. Beneath the shadow of an overhanging awning, he stopped and slid a hand between John and his leather jacket, cupping his side. The vampire gave a slight start, baring his teeth slightly, as he glared at the offender. The people were everywhere, and Sherlock could tell that as each passed, John would cringe ever so slightly.  “A little too close, Sherlock.” The vampire warned him, the words bit out through grit teeth.

The detective cocked his head slightly to one side, looking down into the anxious eyes of his cohort. “You need some, John,” was all he said.

“N-no.” came the hasty reply.

“Yes.” Sherlock asserted. His eyes never left those of the vampire. He leant forward, cupping the side of the cool face he knew so well, planting a soft kiss just before his ear. “No one is paying us any mind here. It’s late, the clock is their focus, and we are just two lover’s on vacation—like them. Try the ‘little drink’. It will help.”

Sherlock placed another delicate kiss slightly lower on the other man’s cheek and he could hear John gasp slightly. He could also hear the gnashing of molars. He kissed again, coaxingly. “You need this, John. Take it and let’s get on with things.”

John released a heavy sigh that was almost an indignant grunt, and then Sherlock felt the soft press of cool lips against the lobe of his ear. A hand came up, gently taking the other side of his neck, as the lips moved lower. Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat higher and soon the kisses gave way to nips. He could feel the sharp teeth grazing the skin of his trapezius, hesitantly. Then the fingers tightened, and he gave a gasp of his own, as the incisors penetrated.

Although he had been bitten several times by Lestat, John’s mouth was far more erotic. The connection with this vampire was pure ecstasy. He could feel John holding him as he drank, slowly, and the detective hardened in response as his lover’s erection pressed against him. Their minds combined completely, thought, memory, and knowledge all focusing on their mutual pleasure of this experience. Being connected in this fashion was more intimate than the throughs of any physical sexual experience either of them had encountered and when they separated, too early and unfinished, they both felt a great swelling of regret and lurid lust.

John did not let Sherlock go. He continued to embrace him, licking the blood from his lips and teeth. Sherlock felt a second kiss and the wound tingled softly, the slight pain associated with the bite mark fading away. Sherlock dipped his head then and kissed the vampire’s mouth.  John did not hold back and as the kiss deepened the detective found he could taste his own blood on the man’s tongue

John pulled back, placing a more chaste kiss on the detective’s lips as he did so. “Thank you.” He said simply.

“It was my pleasure.” The detective replied, feeling his cheeks warm with affection.

Then, with the barest of movement, Sherlock felt a gentle rustling of his coat. It had been almost imperceptible. Most people would have missed it, along with their wallet. When he looked back there were still people close, but none near enough to be the offender. He checked the pocket of his wool coat and found a note.  

John glanced down at the pink paper in his hand and they said nothing as Sherlock unfolded the puffin-shaped sticky-note. They read the message together.  _Starbucks around the corner.  Order something and sit by the corner window._ John didn’t have to ask who the note had come from. He could figure it out from all Sherlock had told him of the girl, but the name still passed between them. A whisper that hung in their minds and the detective’s mouth quirked with the recognition he could see on the vampire’s face of this shared connection.

They moved eastward across the street and found the coffeehouse still open and bustling.  They had to wait to place their order and when they finally got to the counter the young hipster behind the bar lost her train of thought staring into John’s immortal eyes. 

Sherlock watched the vampire, still as modest as ever, trying to gently coax the brunette from her daze without verbally calling her out on it.  Her small grey eyes blinked blankly a few times. Then they went white with knowing and her face shot beet red from her round chin to the tips of her ears. She stammered apologizes in clear english.  “I—ugh, I am so sorry…what would you like to order?”

“Grande Blonde Black, if you please.” The vampire replied, with all the politeness of an English gentleman. He made the mistake of giving her a small smile and it almost sent her back into a daze. 

Annoyed with the girl’s pitiful infatuation, the detective pushed forward to make his own order.  “Grande salted caramel white mocha, half sweet, and one-hundred-seventy degrees.”  He smiled too but the girl seemed unimpressed, struggling to key in the complicated order.

“D-do you mean…extra hot?” she asked, looking confused.

“No.” Sherlock returned, with a resigned sigh. He did not hesitate to correct the young female, “Extra hot is an expression that leaves the barista to select an appropriate temperature anywhere between one-hundred-sixty-five degrees and one-hundred-eighty. I would like my latte made to one-hundred-seventy degrees.”

“O-oh. Okay.” The cashier said, penning something on the other side of the paper cup. She looked up, seemingly cautious, but needing to ask another question.

“Yes?” Sherlock prompted briskly and without hesitation

“Ugh—n-name for the cup?” she finally managed.

“Sherlock.” He answered quickly.

The girl’s scared demeanor shifted to one of skepticism. As she turned away from them to pour John’s blond roast, the vampire caught a snippet of thought. ‘ _What?! This cock is Sherlock Holmes?! No. Can’t be. He’s probably just a Starbucks pseudonym.’_ John tried not to smirk as he accepted the cup from her. He dropped some cash onto the counter. “Keep it.” He said to the girl, before grabbing the detective’s elbow and moving him along.

They took a seat at a small table beside the window in the back corner, as one of the barista’s struggled to make Sherlock’s order.  John’s drink had been poured and served while Sherlock lectured the cashier about the accuracy of his latte order and the detective watched John’s hands now on the paper cup. His fingers seemed to stroke up and down the outside and he noted that John had removed the protective collar. It sat folded beside the cup on the table.

“You can’t drink that.” He suddenly pointed out.

“Not unless I wanna’ be sick.” John replied. He smiled. “I really don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”

“But you ordered it anyway.” Sherlock countered.

“The heat is nice.  Smell’s great. Tasting it would induce vomiting.” The vampire said.  Then he shrugged, “Besides, I’d look awfully strange if I came in and never ordered anything.”

“Mm.” Sherlock replied, wondering how many times _he_ had met someone in a café or restaurant and failed to order something.

John glanced back over his shoulder at the counter, drawing Sherlock’s own gaze.  A young woman was placing an order, with two men in tow behind her.  The detective could see that there was some kind of connection there.  When the girl saw John, her green eyes went wide with surprise and her cheeks flushed, yet the vampire had already turned back.  “Damn, it’s a bloody small world.” He muttered.

“Know her?”

“Well, not exactly.  She caught me zoning once, when I was in Edmonton.” John replied, very matter of fact.  Quietly, he mused, “She remembers.”

“You’re certainly hard to forget.” Sherlock said in a smooth velvety bedroom tone.

John glared up at him through his brows. _Couldn’t resist, could you,_ John sent the detective. Sherlock’s mouth just gave him a smirk in response and John corrected the detective’s answer, explaining in a harsh whisper, “It’s hard to forget that you saw something most likely supernatural that you aren’t supposed to believe in.  Even harder so when you see it again, by some fluke, half way across the damn globe.”

“I wouldn’t worry.  She thinks you’re genetically endowed with such desirable attributes.” Sherlock confirmed for his friend.

“Grande salted caramel white mocha half sweet, for Sherlock!” called the barista at the bar, far louder than was necessary. 

The detective rose from his chair to get his drink.  The blond male barista was still holding the cup, as he approached. “Extra hot.” The man announced proudly.

The detective’s teeth gnashed together. He was about to correct the blond, when he suddenly recognized the predatory smile.  The vampire’s mouth grew wide with delight, as the detective startled backward.

The bustling scene of the cafe was suddenly shattered by a violent crash, as John’s fist hurtled past the detective, straight into the perfect white teeth of the vampire, Lestat. 

Sherlock was thrown back, either by the force of the punch or by John himself. His backside hit the tiled floor hard and skittered to a stop several feet back, knocking over a couple chairs in the process. Screams filled the air, followed by a torrent of rushing bodies, as the patrons attempted to escape what they surely could not comprehend.  The two vampires were brawling despite the crowd, a blur of explosive power that flashed about the café like a tornado, destroying everything it touched.  People were scrambling to flee, some getting caught in the wake of destruction.  Sherlock pushed himself back wanting to stay out of the melee, when a hand grabbed his arm.

A female body moved in front of him like a protective shield.  Red hair fell from over her shoulders and fierce blue eyes narrowed at him, as she chided, “I swear, I can’t take you anywhere.”  

Then the girl closed her eyes and Sherlock felt his body go weightless.  The sensation lasted only a moment, a blip in time, and then he was somewhere else. 

It was hard to explain what he felt during that transition. It was momentary. Hardly even a full second of time and his brain could register that he had been transported but became hung up on the why’s and the how’s that skittered about his frontal cortex, trying to gain purchase on the reality of what had happened. It could not be likened to anything that he had experienced before, yet it was what he felt zero gravity might feel like for an astronaut. Awe and tummy tangles mingling to create something that was both unimaginable and undeniably pleasurable at the same time.

He had been laying in a prone position on the café floor when the puffin girl had nicked him from the Starbucks and here, as the scene blinked from one to the other, he was upright. He could feel his feet touching down, with all the rough shock of a sudden short drop—that sensation that twitches you awake from a fall in your dream—and she was standing before him, her eyes still closed. In that split second of transition, with her eyes closed, her auburn lashes fanning across her pale skin, he could see a bright white light bleeding from around the edges of her lashes, as though her eyes were not glowing, but burning white with a light that needed to escape. The thin skin of her eyelid was translucent with its brilliance and just as he had noticed it, wishing to analyze it, it was gone. His feet were on the ground and her eyes were open, her hand letting go of the lapels of his jacket.

He stared at her, he couldn’t help it. In his daze, he stammered, “T-that was…”

“A trick.” She said, with a wink. “Nothing more.”

Hands pulled him to full alertness, rushing up and down his person in a medical-like sweep that was both shocking and familiar. John was behind him, breathing a sigh of relief, as he found that the detective was in deed intact and unharmed.

Marisa’s eyes narrowed, as she tilted her head to the side to look at the vampire. “That was incredibly stupid, John!” she chastised.

John stepped around Sherlock to peer at the woman scolding him. There was little recognition there beyond what Marisa had revealed—a brief encounter, by chance, long ago. “For your information, Lestat beat the tar out of me not even twenty-four hours ago, and then he’s a fucking barista, handing Sherlock his drink?! I wasn’t about to let him get a leg up on me this time.”

 _‘He’s not the enemy here!_ ‘ Her thought was hissed, loud and clear in John’s mind. Sherlock felt the weight of its presence resonate from the vampire into his own mind, traveling unbidden between them. The detective’s brow knit, as he peered down at the unassuming girl before him. Had she done this as well? Pushed that thought so hard into John’s mind that it went through to Sherlock?

Again, he felt the weight that bore on her shoulders. That sense that she wanted very much to help them, to in fact save them from something, but also that her hands were tied. He felt that some of this was all an act and some of it was true earnest.

Sherlock pushed them apart, turning around in a circle to survey their surroundings. He was not overly familiar with the Czech Republic, but this place was still known to him. They were on the grounds of Karlstejn Castle. It was an imposing gothic-renaissance structure, founded in 1348 by Charles IV, Holy Roman Emperor-elect and King of Bohemia. The castle was built specifically to house the imperial regalia, holy relics, and royal treasures, and therefore is one of the most frequented castles in all of the Republic.

The genius marveled at the puffin-girl’s teleportation abilities. What he had at first suspected a mere ability to vanish and reappear somewhere close by was completely transformed by this revelation. She had teleported not just herself but two additional passengers over thirty kilometers south west of Prague, in a mere moment, and appeared to be none the worse for having done it. Not to mention through obstacles, like stone, metal, mortar, and wood. They had been in a building and now they were outside. It was mind boggling. His mind went wild, calculations and permeations racing through his head, evaluating and analyzing this data, hypothesizing—but he reigned it in. This was not the time.

He reassessed their surroundings again.  The darkness around them was quiet. There would be no tourists here now, although Sherlock surmised that their own presence here was prohibited. Though it was dark, there was enough light from the quarter moon and the stars for him to make out the main structures of the castle grounds. St Mary’s Tower was to his left and the Great Tower was to his right. They were near a wooden bridge that connected the two areas. As he gazed towards the splendor of the Great Tower, he could see a man approaching them.

John went rigid at the sight of him and Sherlock could hear his thoughts transitioning from rational to enraged, as he assumed the obvious. This was Ludvik. Sherlock reached a hand out, taking the vampire’s cold digits into his own, steadying the man’s anger and offering his support. They needed to stay calm.

“Remember what we planned, John.” Sherlock said. There was no need to whisper or to push this thought silently to John through their mind connection. Ludvik was telepathic. It probably didn’t matter how he communicated this sentiment, the man would be listening in.

“Right.” John confirmed, with a resolute nod of his head.

Sherlock could see the transition. He could see the mask of a soldier about to go into battle take over the rage that had burned there only seconds before. This was a battle unlike anything the two of them had experienced before. They were as ready as they could be.

“Stay here.” Marisa told the two men, before she walked past them towards the bridge.

The red head went out to meet the man, crossing the bridge. They greeted one another, just as one might suspect two accomplices to do. There seemed to be no suspicions, no animosity between them, and Sherlock knew then that Ludvik held no power over Marisa

John grew restless at his side. “Am I supposed to attack this guy or wait for him to strike first?” he questioned, growing increasingly anxious with the encounter.

“Just hold back until she brings him to us.” The detective said, “You’re a loose end. He wants to clean house and like any good housekeeper he knows that your connection to Mary is too dangerous to forgo, even though you are now no longer as vulnerable to attack. It’s why he is here. He can’t trust anyone to do this for him.”

“This is a fucking show down.” John spat the words, hating them and this situation. “Me against him, then?”

“Him against us, John.” Sherlock reminded the vampire. “I am here. Don’t shut me out now.

“Right.” John said, even though it came out wobbly in the middle, lacking conviction.

Sherlock knew then that John still doubted their success. He was no doubt more worried about his own safety, rather than focusing entirely on defeating Ludvik.  The genius pushed this thought over to John. _‘Don’t fret over me. Lestat could not even infiltrate my mind. This is to our advantage and not the other way around.’_

Their eyes met. John’s eyes were glassy. Not with tears, for those would be blood if he were to shed any, but with the change. The iris’ glowed iridescent, lit from the back, like those of a feline, giving the man an animalistic appearance that no longer seemed alien to the detective. Within those eyes were still the same thoughts, the same fears, the same love. The vampire nodded his ascent and Sherlock leaned over and John inclined his head to allow their mouths to meet. Chaste. Short and sweet, lacking the lust of their previous unbidden grapples. This was familiar. This was how it had been and how it was meant to be

When they both turned back, they could see the man’s gaze was on them. Sherlock could feel the scrutiny even though they were separated by more than fifty feet of bridge and courtyard. It was when Marisa’s head turned back, her gaze steady, blue eyes shining in the moonlight, that everything went dark.

 

***

 

John felt like a dart had pierced the back of his skull. The needle like point jamming between the atlas and axis of the skull and spine, instantaneously blackening his vision. The pain associated with such an affliction would be acute, yet his own pain now was a moment of piercing electric shock that subsided like the ebb and flow of the tide into something dull and aching.  Soon it was but a weight, a pressure that lingered on the vertebrae there, constant but no longer harmful. He raised his hand to the back of his neck, assessing, and finally relenting to massage the point. His muscles were taught, tensed from the experience, but otherwise there was no physical marking that he could feel that would denote a trauma to the area.

His vision was still black and although he could feel that his feet were solidly planted, he could see no ground to which he stood upon. It was what he would liken to suddenly going blind. He felt he was still where he had been, in the courtyard of the castle, but he could no longer sense anyone else around him. The vampire used his other heightened senses, searching for the detective, for anyone. He could smell nothing. Not even the dew forming on the grass, as he had moments before.  He reached out with his mind, calling the detective by name, only to feel stupidly incapable of such a task—regardless of the fact that they had shared a message only minutes before.

He second guessed even his own consciousness then. Perhaps, he was not awake at all. The first blow had been thrown, the first assault launched, and here he was, rendered incapacitated without even the mere knowledge of having lost.

The blackness was consuming. He felt like it ate at him, slowly devouring one morsel of his flesh at a time as the seconds ticked by.

He moistened his lips, feeling the sensation as normal as ever, and cautiously he spoke, “No. This isn’t real. I’m still here. Sherlock is beside me and Ludvik is attacking me.”

A hand gripped his shoulder, jarring him back. It was not a rough shove, but a gentle nudge. His eyes opened. The blackness vanished. His sight was restored.

A smile. A beautiful, patient, kind smile spread an arm’s length from him. It sat just below relief-filled eyes, crinkling at the corner as they gazed at him. “Are you alright, love?” she asked him. Her voice was just above a whisper, concerned and yet so patient, as she always had been. “You were calling for him again.”

It was said like it always had been said. A fact. ‘You were calling for _him_ ’. Always ‘for _him’_. She never said his name. Just ‘ _him_ ’. That other with whom she had replaced. The hole with which she had sewn shut, coming undone, fraying apart. She never said it with malice and she never said it with a jealous taint. It was a fact. Just as solid as gravity or inertia. A thing which was true, and which was accepted. Work with which she would mend again, as many times as it took.

“Mary…” he heard himself whisper

It came out of him unbidden, as though he were not in control of his body. A thought turned to a word before his mind even realized he had wanted to say her name.

Her hand was on his shoulder, a gently pressure that moved along the muscle up to the side of his face, cupping his cheek. Her eyes scanned his face, tender and loving. She didn’t tell him that it was okay, that he was safe. Her face said all that in this one expression. Mary was too cheeky to say sweet protective acknowledgments as those. The dream came often enough that when she would wake him from it, they savored the moments together, when their eyes would meet, and their sleepy smiles would beam, and then she would ruin it with some comedic comment that made them both chuckle.

It was always something dark and witty. Like, ‘I can’t sleep with you moaning for that man’ or ‘I don’t really want to share our bed with your flat mate’. She did not say anything tonight and John found he chuckled anyway, out of expectation alone. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his mouth, kissing the chuckle as it escaped between them, before settling back on her side. She was closer now than before and he could feel the warmth of her body radiating out against him. She heated the covers with the blood that continually pumped through her and John suddenly realized that he couldn’t hear it.

The sound of blood pumping through the circulatory system was something that as a doctor the man had always been familiar with. It was a check mark on a check list to every patient. When he had become what he was now it had become a haunting beat of a drum, always there no matter how he steeled his mind to shut it out. It was the constant temptation, beating at his ear drums until they felt numb, making the back of his throat itch with a thirst that was never fully satisfied.

But now, it was gone. His ears were blessedly sparred its monotonous march. He stared at his fiancé with a new vigor, so thankful for the reprieve.

Yet, this could not be real.

That was what a voice whispered from the back of his mind. He thought about this, as his eyes made lazy loops around her sparkling eyes, over her generous smile, down the length of her neck, and back up to the curve of her shoulder. Round and round they went, soaking the visage of the woman in, until once more he heard it whisper its unwanted reminder. _Not real._   He brushed the offending nothing aside, mentally taking a thick bristly broom to the words scrawled inside his conscious brain, brushing until he felt raw and rid of them.

“Go away.” He said. The words were spoken aloud and once more he could not remember consciously deciding to release them that way.

Mary gave a snorted guffaw of laughter, her eyes narrowing with a coy mirth, as she gave him a playful shove. “Pardon me?” she laughed, jovially, “First you call out for another man and now you ask me to go away?”

“That’s not quite it.” John tried to elaborate, feeling stupid and lame in front of her kind hearted humor.

“If I didn’t know any better,” she said, shaking a finger at him, before pinching his cheek like an adoring great aunt, “I’d say you had arranged to get rid of me.”

John stopped. He was still. He was pinned by those words, spike driven into the joints of his body, steeling him against any movement.  He relived that line, spoken in her charming bedroom tones, over and over in his brain. What exactly had she just asked him? Was this an accusation? Did she truly think this to be true? It could not be so! He wouldn’t let it!

“I would never, Mary.” He implored, reaching out and taking her by the shoulders roughly. He had to make her understand at all costs. “I chose you. I gave myself to you! I would never take that back! Not for him! Not for anything!”

She smiled again. It was too understanding, too patient, too kind to be real. It was patronizing now. Looking upon him with pious pity and condemnation. “As if you had a choice in the matter.”

“Of course, I did!” he raged at her, wanting to convince her to be rid of that look on her face.

“You and I never had a choice.” She said, her tone deflated and callous. “He was always there between us, even before you knew he was alive.”

“That’s not true,” he said. His voice came out weak and pathetic. “It’s not.” He repeated, as though for good measure, as he let her go and turned onto his back.

His eyes went to the ceiling, unable to look at her any longer, as the voice repeated its haunting message. _This is not real._

“This is your fault, John.” She said, her voice was scratchy and hollow.

He turned back and she was no longer beautiful. Her skin was grey, pulled tight against the bones of her skull. Her hair was stringy and lifeless. In place of her large blue eyes, were gaping black sockets, that oozed maggots and sludgy grey matter. Her lips were no longer there. They were shriveled away, revealing the lack of gums behind them, and the white teeth inside.  She reached out, pushing back the hair around one of his ears, before a bone tipped fingers trialed lazily down the curve of his jaw. She tapped his chin and sweetly chided, “You did this to me.”

He shook his head, as his vision blurred with tears. His throat swelled, as his breaths hitched inside his diaphragm. “No.” he breathed. Just, “No.”

“Yes.” She said again, her teeth clicking as her jaw moved. Her voice somehow coming out of her severed throat, even though her voice box was lacerated, and her tongue was half eaten by worms. “You are now damned, and I am dead…all because you couldn’t choose me…over him.”

John could feel the tears on his skin, running over the lower lash line and spilling down his cheeks. “No.” he said again, even though it didn’t really matter. “Th-this isn’t real.” The words sounded true now, spoken out of his own mouth.

He swallowed, trying to find the purchase for his resolve. “I tried to save you. W-we were caught off guard. I wasn’t expecting to be attacked, not like that, not with you as the target.” He was babbling now, letting his reasoning flow freely, as her corpse held his hand and laid with her skull next to his head on the pillow. “You lied to me. If I had known…you could have trusted me…we could have saved ourselves.”

“No, John,” the skull said, shedding pieces of rotten flesh as it moved against the fabric of the pillowcase.

John could smell her now. The putrid stench of decaying matter, rotting flesh. It was overwhelmingly real and he was painfully aware that he could no longer dally with this supernatural tour de force. “Yes.” He reinforced, the conviction returning to his voice. “Sherlock never caused any of this. You have no one to blame for your death, but yourself and those that murdered you. I had nothing to do with any of it, even though…” he paused, his breaths hitching again as more hot tears rolled down and soaked the cotton of the pillowcase, “even though I would give anything to revert this all and save you.”

 _Not real. John! This is not real!_ The whisper had grown into an urgency within his brain. A thought that was mounting its forces and persisting in its need to be heard. John closed his eyes and begged it to reveal itself. Pleaded with the voice to show itself.

In the darkness of his minds eye, he could see the detective. A loan figure in the darkness, but a speck on a nonexistent horizon, flanked by two other imposing figures. One blond and one dark. Both dangerous, both desirous of possessing the man. Moriarty and Lestat. He ran to Sherlock, calling his name again. Sherlock looked up at John, acknowledging his concern, as he was seized under the arms by the beings on either side of him. The detective whispered his name and something else that was lost in what became a torturous wail, as his arms were tugged upon by the vampire and the demon. John called out to him again, but before he could reach the man, his body was torn in half. Sheared right down the middle from top to bottom, as neatly as one might tear a piece of paper. The halves fell to the floor, melting into the blackness of this place, as cackling filled the air.

“Sherlock!” he cried again, trying to grab at the disappearing visage.

His hands found only dirt, freshly dug and wet with rain. The black veil lifted, and John could see that he was out in a down pour.  The night was black, but his body was illuminated by the headlights of a car, just feet behind his person. His hands were immersed in the soil up to his wrists and before him was a six-foot hole. Inside the hole was a casket, with its lid open. Inside, there was nothing. Just the clean white satin lining, with no head to lay upon the absurd little pillow. He looked up at the black headstone.

This was the detective’s grave. The fake grave that Mycroft had allowed John to weep at to mourn the false death of his friend—his lover.

Why was he here? There was nothing here. There never had been. It was just a rouse. Just a ploy to make the right people think what the mad genius wanted them to think. John was just playing a part. The part he had not known he was to play.

“Oh, damn,” he heard someone curse, as he saw women’s heels on the wet grass beside him. “Here we go again.”

John turned, looking up the stocking clad legs, the dark skirt, to the teal blouse, and the blond curls of Mary. She held an umbrella over her head and slightly towards him, to shield both of them from the torrent of water falling from the black sky. Her trench coat was getting soaked, the long hem dripping with the sopping downpour. Her face was pinched, disapproving.

She nodded her chin towards the hole in the ground and the empty casket. “How many times did I find you out here, crying, or, pardon me,” she paused to lift a hand and mime quotations, “’not’ crying. Even dead he controlled you. And I just had to play along, like I didn’t know the insufferable cock was just using you.”

“You knew?” John accused, incredulous.

“Of course, I knew.” She retaliated, as though defending her skill and craft. “Only an idiot would think that the man killed himself to save someone else. He was a manipulative psychopath. He didn’t have friends.”

“Shut up. This isn’t you. You’re not real.” John blasted back, still hunched on the ground with his hands in the dirt, rivulets of rain running down from his hair into his eyes.  “He didn’t use me.”

She tsked him, like a scolding teacher. “That man used everyone.”

“You didn’t know him like I did.” He shot back.

“You mean,” she laughed mockingly, and snidely spat, “with his cock inside of me? Thank God! He took from you what he needed, when he needed it, and when he was done he couldn’t even do you the service of telling you the truth. He left you to pine for him, so he could feel important while you only felt misery and pain.”

 _Not real._ There it was again. Small but substantial. That voice reminding him what was reality and what was not, even though he wanted very much to stay here and argue his point. It was Sherlock. It had to be. The man was trying to get inside. Trying to help. Trying to keep John on track.

John stood up, brushing the mud from his hands. He turned to the woman at his side. Mary looked at him with question and distain in her hooded eyes. This was not the woman he had loved. This was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. This was Ludvik.

The man reached out, his fingers clawing around the thin neck, as those blue eyes shot wide with surprise. As his thumbs pressed knowingly down against the lump of wind pipe, running the length of her throat, her pink tongue shot out of her gaping mouth, sputtering spittle against his cheeks as tried to fight for a breath. The umbrella fell away as her hands swung upward, raking down against his face, pulling at his hair. Her nails cleaved deep trails into his flesh wherever she could reach him but he kept pushing, applying the force necessary to close the windpipe for good.

_No…stop._

John didn’t listen to the change of words that the voice spoke to him. The woman in his grasp was losing. Her pink skin was turning ever more blue and purple, the veins popping out along her temples. Her sclera’s becoming more bloodshot, the lack of oxygen and the struggle popping blood vessels over her cheeks. Ludvik was almost dead.

_Stop, John! No!_

“It’s not her! It’s not Mary!” John snarled to the voice. To Sherlock.

He was determined to end this. He would end this man who had caused him to endure this pain, to relive this horror. He would kill this murderer and stop the war he wished to breed between their kinds.

“John, stop!” Sherlock’s cry was fierce in his ear drum, as he felt hot hands pressing against either side of his face.

He was still strangling the neck between them, but Sherlock was on the other side now. He faced John, pleading with him to relent. The legs gave way and John felt the body fall like a dead weight. He let go and let it fall to the ground, between them, not at all regretting what he had done. The blond head lolled lifelessly to the side, the blue eyes vacant and grey now in death, the pink tongue slipped out past parted lips. 

John felt a weight lifting from his shoulders, a physical oppression removed, and satisfaction settled into the pit of his stomach like a warm cup of tea, soothing his dread and anxiety. He looked from the dead woman—no longer Mary to him—and there was Sherlock before him, his hands still gripping his face on either side. The other man’s face was drawn and weary, concern mounted on his features, as though all the weight John had felt receding from his own person had not disappeared but instead was transferred. He tried to smile reassuringly but it only made the creases on the other man’s face deepen.

The detective’s hands did not fall away, instead they urged John forward. With a gentleness that John had only witnessed the man use with him alone, the detective drew their faces together. The doctor’s eyes drifted from the man’s pale orbs to his mouth and back again, as a lust grew within him that he was all too familiar with. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips in anticipation, when Sherlock with held this gift. John’s eyes tried to focus on the man’s face, but their proximity prohibited this action. He could feel the hot breath of the other man on his mouth and it only made the burning desire grow hotter still, moving from his gut to his groin and to his throat, swelling everything in its path.

There was that whisper again. Less urgent now than it had been before. _Now, John. He’s yours now. Yours alone._

It was all the permission that the man needed. He acted. It was desperate. Action fueled with an urgency to fill a part of himself that was lacking, that gaped open, raw, and unhealed. John’s hands grappled with the other man’s shoulders, pulling the man to him, their chests pressing hard against one another. His mouth claimed the other’s, teeth raking over full lips, as raucous moans escaped the detective, fueling only more passion and need from the man. His tongue lapped the outline of the lips against his own, then the teeth behind them, finally meeting to war with the other tongue beyond. The sounds that Sherlock made were enough to make John aware of his engorged arousal, but pressing against the detective’s own erection did little to dampen the flames that burned in his loins.

For the first time since entering this place, John lost himself. He lost control of his mind, of his body, and therefore of his actions as well. The tenuous grip he had on his emotions, on his rage, on his regrets, on his guilt, was let loose—slipping from his hands like the reins of a wild stallion, sure to buck him off, and trample him. He felt his own desire, felt the flames deep inside of himself, licking up from his gullet and searing the back of his throat. He felt his teeth and tongue and lips trailing kisses and nips from the corner of the other man’s mouth, to the turn of his jaw, to the bob of his adam’s apple, and finally to the pulse of the blood in his carotid artery. His breaths came in rapid succession, leaving him fighting for air, as he lavished in the throb of that moving blood against the tip of his tongue and the curve of his mouth, mimicked by the tensing of the man’s arousal against his own.

John could feel the man’s thin dexterous fingers combing through his hair, teasing and pulling, as he moaned for more. John gave it to him. His teeth sank into the tender skin, rough and greedy, lacerating the flesh of the other man’s neck with ease. The broken skin tickled his mouth as he pressed his lips over the edges of the open wound, which now pulsed with life. The cavern of his mouth was flooded with the sweet hot liquid and he swallowed each mouthful as it was pumped in. He could hear his own moaning join that of his lovers, could feel the sound vibrating in his throat and in his chest, as he was filled.

John felt the over powering ecstasy of the feeding begin to overtake him, his cock growing hard, pleasure consuming his thoughts, drowning out all else. All he could feel and think was the blood—his blood—it was like nothing that he had tasted before, a bouquet all to his own. _Mine, all mine!_

John drank from the man as he had never allowed himself to. He drank gulp after gasping gulp. He didn’t breath, he did not have to now, and stopped in order to consume more of the liquid gold that lit his belly with coils of pleasure, that spread out from there to his groin and onward to every other limb. But somehow, the vampire belatedly realized, the man was not a part of this exchange. The mind connection was not there, as it always had been before, flooding open so that for that short time while he fed the two felt as one. His swallows slowed, as he tried to force himself to think past the erotic drink. He reached out mentally. It was like cloying his way again in the darkness that Ludvik’s mind trick had started with.

John did not want to stop feeding, not yet, but this thought plagued him like a taunting bully. He clung to the body in his arms, eyes screwed shut, and he could feel vibrations from the other man’s chest. It was the start of a soft laughter. The sound surprised him as it grew into a loud mocking chortle. The blood soured on his tongue, becoming thick like brown molasses, sticking to the roof of his mouth and his teeth.

The vampire finally pulled back, beholding the man in his embrace. Dark eyes met his own, white around the edges with a madness and coldness that he was all too familiar with. His hands released their grip on the shorter man that had replaced his lover.

“Aw, c’mon, now. It was just starting to get _good_.” Moriarty mocked him, those intense eyes widening even more as he forcefully emphasized the last word. He straightened his purple dress shirt—the same as the one John had always envied on the detective’s lean form—and the vampire realized that the demon was dressed in that same outfit. Moriarty saw this recognition and his lips curled with sadistic pleasure. He gestured to his clothes and asked, “Do you like it? I borrowed them. I don’t think Sherlock will mind.”

John’s teeth gnashed together. His brain was beginning to hurt again, a pounding starting behind his eyes, as he tried to reason with himself. He could not tell what was happening anymore. He had not the slightest clue what was real and what was fiction. Was this really Moriarty? Or was this something else that Ludvik had conjured to jeer him with?

Moriarty stuffed his hands into the pockets of the dark slacks, his head lolling slowly downward and to his other shoulder. Those dark eyes seemed to keep on him through this entire movement, sending chills through John like nails driven into him. It was disconcerting to be here with this monster and not know if it was truly him or some other unknown foe.

The wound on his neck was still wet with blood. It was black in color and smelled even more ominous. Moriarty’s eyes were still on him, hollowing him out as they bore into him, flicking now and then from his gaze to his mouth and back. “I was hoping you wouldn’t stop so soon, Johnny boy. I was starting to enjoy our little exchange.”

John felt the sour blood still on his tongue and it sickened him. He welled saliva in his mouth and spat it out, running his tongue over his teeth to try and clean them of the decay. Moriarty’s mouth made a perfect ‘o’ of indignant surprise, his brows closing together as he drew a hand from his pocket and began to silently gesture at the blot on the ground. Yet he didn’t say anything, just continued to gesticulate theatrically, and when he realized John was not going to take the bait he stopped.

The man’s hand returned to his pocket and he smiled that wide sleek smile. The vampire felt something else now, entirely new to him. He likened it to what a patient must feel during a pancreatic attack. The onset of the pain was sudden and acute, taking root inside of him and growing in intensity until he could not bear to keep silent anymore. His hands grappled at his torso uselessly, their pressure unable to give him any kind of reprieve. The pain began to radiate out in tendrils, as though the agony had sent out vines, like shoots from a seed, that carved new pathways through muscle and bone. It was a horrific feeling, squirming under his skin, and the knowledge that something else grew inside of him made him wretch. Nothing came out.

“Oops, forgot to mention,” Moriarty announced, leaning down towards John’s hunched form on the ground, “Demon blood can certainly pack one hell of a punch.”

John was incapacitated by the pain that wracked his body. He tried to think, tried to understand what was happening to him, and all he could come up with was ‘not real’. This thought did little to help him or even to ease the pain. It was like being tortured. He wondered how long he could withstand it. A mortal body would have probably given out and lapsed into unconsciousness. John was not sure that an immortal could with stand anything more. He tried to guess how long he had and as he did, he thought about the detective.

John wondered, where the man was. He wondered if Ludvik had gotten to him, if he was under attack and whether that attack was mental or physical. He damned his own inability to navigate this telepathic battlefield, for having failed so miserably in his attempt to over power this man, and for leaving Sherlock unprotected.

They had been idiots. Round and round the garden like a teddy bear. They had been revolving in and out of trouble, in and out of love, in and out of one another’s lives, never settling at any moment. He had loved the blasted detective and had longed to be loved in return. The sex was a bonus, he would take it, but he had wanted deep down for the man to love him, to let him in, to trust him. The night before the fall, that last time they had made love…John should have known the fall was a trick!

 _It’s a trick. Just a magic trick…_ the memory of the way his voice sounded over the mobile that day was so painful—more painful than this attack that left him hunched and unable to move—that his eyes pricked with tears. He should have known. Why hadn’t he been clever enough to figure it out? Why had he not waited. All of this was his fault. All of this was of his own making. If only he had believed.

Somewhere in the distance, an echoing mumble beyond the pain, he heard Moriarty’s scrambling words, “No! No, no-no-no-no, no!”

_Nobody could be that clever._

_You could._

_Just a magic trick._

The memory seemed to repeat itself in his mind’s eye and the vampire thought for a moment that the physical pain that wracked his body was now too much. Even though he was immortal, he would lapse into unconsciousness, and Ludvik or Moriarty—whoever this was that tormented him—would win.

He heard Moriarty screaming, somewhere beyond the pounding in his ears, “No! No! This can’t be. I’ve won! No!”

John could hear something else then, a roaring like radio static, that grew loud enough to overcome the pounding. It was a rushing torrent of sounds jumbled all together, moving so fast that he could not make anything out. It was like being immortal again for the first time, that rushing din of voices and thoughts screaming through his brain, before he had learned how to shut them off and tune them out.

Slowly, how, he could not be certain, but the pain began to recede and for once he let the raucous clamor of other’s thoughts fill him. He gorged on it as he had the blood earlier, feeling the physical pain of the attack subside as he was consumed. He listened to the words, the sounds, thankful for their intrusion, when he suddenly realized that he recognized them—all of them.

They were not random, they were not the unfamiliar blather of those close by. It was equations, experiments, results, hypothesizes, theories, and formulas. This was the mind palace, the place the detective stored all of his knowledge. This was the weight of everything in the man’s eternal hard drive being downloaded without relent and without a cap on the speed.

John was finally able to get to his feet. The ache inside of him had diminished and with it the backdrop of the telepathic battlefield. His surrounding changed, pixel by pixel, back into his physical reality. He was back again outside the ancient castle. Sherlock’s hands pressed to his temples, his eyes closed. Without opening them, he removed his hands, mouthing the word, “Now.”

The vampire sprang to action, his immortal speed and agility closing the gap between himself and his attacker in a split second. He caught the other man without warning, Ludvik’s eyes screwed shut. Then he took the man’s jaw in his hands. The death was quick and painless. A simple twist, the pop and crack of bones, and the man’s lifeless form toppled to the castle grounds. It was over. He had survived. He had won.

John looked down. He had not known this man that he had killed. He didn’t care to. He stepped over the body and as he did so, something caught his eye. He reached out with his fingers and touched the pretty bobble about the man’s neck.

 

***

 

Sherlock did not stop feeding John’s mind with anything and everything he could, even as the vampire seemed to come out of the paralyzed state he had assumed when Ludvik had launched his attack, some ninety minutes prior. He watched John wake up, relief flooding the man’s face, and the detective had to prompt the vampire into action.

John had moved so fast that his inferior sight could not keep up and Ludvik was dead on the ground before Sherlock had even thought about it. He stopped flooding John with his thoughts, thankful that it was over. He was mentally exhausted. Ludvik’s hold over John’s mind had been more powerful than he had anticipated. It had taken him far longer to break through than he had wanted, each moment he was locked out a moment too long for John inside. The detective had not been sure what Ludvik was capable of and how quickly he could exterminate his target, but Sherlock did not give up. He had found a chink in the mental armor that the telepath had laid and although it was small, the detective began to work away at it. He wore it down piece by piece, getting more and more information inside, until, like a dam it broke, and he was able to flood Ludvik through John. Just as he had predicted, it was too much for even Ludvik to filter, which gave John the chance to end his life.

The vampire appeared to have snapped the man’s neck. It was then that Sherlock thought about the amulet, wondering where it was on the man, who lay across the bridge from him still. He saw Marisa slightly behind John, reaching out, but before either of them could do anything John had collapsed to the ground beside the dead man.

Sherlock raced across the bridge. The man’s name passed his lips, before he even realized he was screaming for him. The vampire did not respond and when he was finally at his lover’s side, he could see that John was catatonic. He called his name again, hands gripping the sides of his face, but all the vampire could do was shift his gaze to him.

Marisa’s hand touched his shoulder and she softly tried to apologize, “I tried to stop him. He touched the amulet.”

“What has it done to him?” Sherlock demanded, surprised by his own panic, as he turned desperate eyes on her.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, were rolled by her teeth, before she moistened them and spit out her answer. “It has drawn on his energy. All of it.”

“Just one touch?” the detective pressed, wanting more data.

“That’s all it takes.” She said. The words came out of her slow and bedraggled.

The brunet was instantly wary, feeling that she withheld something. He could sense her own dread, written about her person by the crease above her left eyebrow, the way she slowed the words she had said, the way she clenched her fingers in a bunch at her side, and by the way her jaw shifted. It was set. She was determined to follow through with something and just as he was about to voice his accusation, she closed her eyes. The weightless sensation overcame him once more and they were teleported.

_***_

It was dark and small, smelling the way only old musky castle towers could. They were inside Karlstejn somewhere. It was a stone corridor, cramped, with a round low ceiling that made it impossible to stand upright. John was absent. Sherlock was not as impressed by her abilities now and he glared at the girl.

Marisa stood near a large door, with an appropriately large iron key in her hand. She too was tucked low to accommodate the clearance of the ceiling.

"John is inside." Marisa affirmed in a whisper.

The girl’s hand tightened on the shaft of the key. She hesitated, and Sherlock dashed away thoughts of her wanting to help them. He knew now that they were in more danger here, than anything Ludvik could have wrought on them. Marisa was nervous, regretful looking, and she kept raking her bottom lip with her teeth. All this spelled ‘fear’ to Sherlock’s trained eye. She was afraid of what was on the other side of the door.

“You must go inside.” She stated. It had been pushed out of her, words she dreaded to say. She extended the key, refusing him eye contact, as he nodded and she released it into his hand. 

Marisa's expression was hard, resolute, despite the betrayal that lingered between them like an unspoken ghost, foul and haunting.

Sherlock leant close, his nose grazing hers. His lips curled back and in a low growl he scornfully spat, “You. Disgust. Me.” Each word was pointed, filled with thorns, rolling off his tongue with malice and bite. 

Her eyes flashed up to meet his—they trembled a second before flashing away again. That second had said all he needed to know.

He left her there, turning back to the key in his hand and the door at the end of the corridor. The weight of it was solid in his fingers, as he slid the head into the hole. It took effort to turn it and push the lock open. It made a clanking click that seemed unbelievably loud in the silence and stillness of the cramped hallway. The detective could feel his pulse, hammering in his chest, escalating with every second that ticked past. He was not sure what lay beyond this door. It could be anything. All he hoped it would be, was John.


	22. Chapter 22

 

 

He left the key in the lock and pushed opened the door, pulling it back fully, allowing a flood or warm light to spill out into the darkened hallway. It lit the black space causing Sherlock to squint. Stepping over the stone threshold, the detective came into a room befitting the Vatican's highest chapel. Gold, inlaid with shimmering stones and glass covered the sweeping arches above them, awe inspiring in its beauty and craftsmanship. Jasper and amethyst were set in the large gold crosses. Their were three tiers of portraits, lining the upper walls like a modern day gallery, all manner of Christianity depicted. Saints, apostles, bishops, abbots, and rulers, including Charlemagne, portrayed with the golden orb and scepter from the family treasury.

Sherlock knew this place by its profound beauty and splendor. This was one of the many reasons tourists visited Karlstejn Castle. This was the Chapel of the Holy Cross, a jewel crafted and honed after years of collecting and gathering and production by Charles IV. His holy sanctuary, where he recreated what some say he believed to be a new Jerusalem.

Amongst all of this, Sherlock found John.

John lay much as he had fallen outside the castle, after having touched the amulet. He was positioned in the middle of a wide, worn burgundy carpet that ran from the doorway to the alter of the chapel, which was sectioned off by a fence and gate. Sherlock went to his side, kneeling down, finding that nothing had changed. John was still placid and catatonic.

Marisa had come in after him, locking the door behind her with the large key. She walked past the man and the vampire, the hem of her black skirt swishing softly about her thin legs. In her other hand the detective could see that she had the amulet from Ludvik. She passed through the golden gate of the enclosure, making her way to the small but grandly bejeweled alter. There was a single row of pews on either side of the burgundy rug, past the ornate gate. The ceiling above her was made of gold and glass, positioned purposely with the sun and moon on either side of the alter. It was here, at its center, that she knelt.  Bringing her hand to her forehead the woman performed the three-finger blessing, her words inaudible, if she had spoken any aloud.

Sherlock watched her, his curiosity and anxiety roiling under his calm exterior. He showed little tension although John’s state made him increasingly worried. This was the workings of a well laid plan, not of her crafting. Marisa finished and glanced back in his general direction. She rose and turned back around, moving back down the carpet. She avoided eye contact with him and silently took a seat on the pew left of the alter, like any religious patron might.

She sat there, the amulet in her delicate white fingers. Her head was bowed, as though she were deep in prayer—which he very much doubted. Her red hair fell over her shoulders, in contrast with the glinting gold that surrounded them, flickering in the sparse candle light that was barely enough to light the room. She was waiting, and Sherlock was certain he knew for whom.

The answer came all to soon. 

The small door they had all come through opened once more and soon the small chapel was filled with the monotone sound of latin prayers being sung. It was a dark sounding rhythmic pattern of song, one step above a chant, sung in a harmonic tenor and baritone—two individuals. The procession slowly came through the door, the duos steps covered by the volume of their synchronized voices. Moriarty was dressed in the holy vestment of an archbishop. The demon’s even steps ruffling the hem of the scarlet cassock, which was topped with a matching mozetta, and the tall diamond shaped mitre sat upon his most unholy brow. 

The room became saturated with a sweet smelling smoke from the charcoal that burned in the ornate thurible that the mock-bishop swung ritualistically back and forth like a pendulum before him.  Behind him came a taller figure, blond curls drawn back with a black ribbon, hands holding a long white candle that cast eerie shadows on the vampire’s pale face. Lestat’s head was cast downward, his eyes barely open, as he followed his master. He was dressed in a long white rochet, detailed in lace about the knees, as it flowed over the scarlet cassock beneath. They proceeded past the two of them, as much a part of a play as Marisa was in her pew.

Even though the detective cared little for the imaginary friend the religion bowed to, the mockery of it was still acutely irritating.  Moriarty had told him on that roof top, that he was on the side of the angels, when really what he meant was that the detective was not dabbling with demonic forces and therefore could not understandably compare.

Moriarty finished his procession at the alter inside the enclosure. He placed the thurible aside, and turned back to greet his audience with a wide patronizing smile.  “John…Watson,” he announced, in a loud voice, as though he truly were addressing a crowd in the small chapel room, “was a terribly bland and unremarkable man…and an even _worse_ vampire.  However, we are gathered here this night to bid a final adiue to this incredibly boring waste of flesh and bone.”

Sherlock stood incensed by the demon’s audacity.  “A little pre-emptive and presumptuous, isn’t it?” he called out, breaking the pattern of the play Moriarty had constructed to act in.

Moriarty’s dark eyes gave an exaggerated roll back that ended on his vampire minion standing by his side.  His hand came down and the demon gave his alter boy a sharp smack on the ass, as he commanded, “Take care of that, would you, Angel.” It was by no means a request.

The blond vampire said nothing.  His icy eyes landed on the detective and before Sherlock could react, there was a sharp cracking smack that sent a bursting star pattern before his vision, followed up by a blossoming of pain across his face. He knew that the slap had broke his nose, even if he had not been able to see it happen.  Instinctively, his hands came up to cover the bleeding wreck, as the man felt himself moved. His vision blurred, as he felt cool hands on his person, and when it cleared, he found himself sitting in the pew opposite Marisa.  The pain radiating from the fracture was almost over whelming. The warm unending trickle of blood slipped through and over his fingers, drippling over the front of his shirt and the thighs of his dark slacks.

“Hardly…necessary.” He managed to grumble out through the mess, as he glared at the vampire already back its master’s side.

Moriarty’s smile deepened, as he tipped his head in his direction and answered with a pleasant sigh, “But immensely satisfying.”  Glancing back down he lolled his head back and forth as he mumbled, “Now, where was I?  Oh, yes!”  He flicked his fingers in a beckoning motion, “Angel, bring up the deceased.”

Sherlock turned back to see that the vampire was outside the enclosure and that he had John around the ankle.  Unceremoniously, he towed John up to the alter, the younger vampire still unable to fight back against the indignation.  Once at the front Lestat picked John up, holding him upright, with his arms restrained behind his back.  John’s head dangled forward, his legs unable to support his own weight. 

Moriarty shook his head before coming around the alter towards the pews.  He sauntered up to the detective, his steps leisurely weaving in front of one another, that smarmy pleasant smile still plastered on his face. As he neared, the demon’s smacked the detective’s hands away from protecting the broken nose. He ruthlessly snatched a mittful of his dark hair. He pulled up with just enough force to keep Sherlock sitting as straight and still as was possible. Any movement would cause the hair to pull too tight. The other man leaned in close and Sherlock was able to study the reanimated creature for the first time.  Although the man had him in a tenuous predicament, the genius could not help but gather data.

The man was unremarkably supernatural. That was to say that there was very little about his physical body that led one to suspect that he was anything but human. He had looked exactly as he had, when the two of them had come face to face, on that roof top. His eyes were the only give away and this seemed to be controlled at his will. The dark iris’ turned from brown to pitch, the pupil seeming to expand to engulf the entirety of the colored ring, expanding just a bit further to add to his haunting dominion.

At this range, the detective could feel the hot moisture of the demon’s breath passing over his skin. The man gave a huffed chuckle of satisfaction and pleasure. It delighted him so to have the detective at his mercy. Without warning, the man’s mouth opened wide, revealing teeth that were suddenly razor sharp needles, clustered together tight and dangerous. The tongue in his mouth snaked out, elongated and skinny, with a reptilian fork at the end. The flat awful thing reached out towards his face and Sherlock steeled himself, forbidding any movement or cringe. He could not give in to this torture. It was what the madman wanted, to see him helpless and squirming, the thrill of it would only fuel his pleasure and feed his demonic nature. The tongue pressed roughly against his chin, pulling upwards over his lips and mouth to flick the end of his nose. This repeated several more times, slow and terrible. The demon’s eyes closed with indulgence, moans of erotic pleasure rumbling from the man’s throat, as the blood was licked clean from Sherlock’s mouth and chin

“You taste…” the demon whispered against his face, pausing to take another luxurious sampling, “far better than expected.  No wonder John couldn’t help himself.”  The rough tongue lapped across Sherlock’s full lips, even as he pressed them tightly together, and then moved away across his high cheek bones to run the perimeter of his ear, those needle like teeth toying with the small lobe.  “I told you once, Sherlock, that I would burn the heart out of you.  Now…I’m going to make goooood on that promise.”

The detective’s head was jerked back violently, his scalp screaming with the pressure. He was held in that awkward position, just long enough for the pain it caused to become unmanageable. Then the hand that help him released. He brought his head back, feeling the muscles in his neck protest, and his brows lowered dangerously over his eyes at the wide black orbs before him.  Moriarty flicked the tip of his chin and stepped back, standing upright. Sherlock stopped him. His hands darted out, making fists in the cape-like mozetta draped over his shoulders. He pulled the demon back, knowing full well that the creature bemusedly allowed this. Sherlock took advantage of the moment, hissing into the man’s face, “But it’s not you, is it?  Not really.  You’re a demon now.  It’s the demonic power that gives you the strength to do this.”

His hands were slapped away with a simple chop and Moriarty stepped a pace back.  He glared in an over-acted display of disgust, as he swiped his hands over his costume, taking the time to straighten it.  Then he smiled again, replying with a bored sigh, “Conquering the mortal world was simply too easy.” His nose scrunched up as he admitted, “I needed more of a challenge…and one just so happened to present itself.”

“Before the rooftop.” Sherlock said.

Moriarty’s eyes widened, and he nodded his head.  “Yes!” he squealed, excitedly, as he lifted his hands out to the detective and asked, “Wasn’t that just thrilling!?  Did you get my brains out of your coat?  I always loved that coat of yours, with your lapels cocked up to show off those cheek bones of yours.”

When Sherlock did not respond the demon spun on his heel in a circle, the bishop’s vestments vanishing.  When he stopped he was wearing a navy british-cut suit. He made a show of shoving his hands down into the pockets, his head held high so he peered down his nose at Sherlock with those black orbs.  “So, whadya think, Sherlock?  Does demonic look good on me?” He turned and lifted the back of the suit jacket, showing his rear end, as he cocked his head over his shoulder and asked, “Does it make my ass look too big?”

“Mmm-no.” the detective answered coolly, tilting his own head back a notch to show that he was neither intimidated nor impressed with the creature’s antics, “But your head does seem to have swelled a bit.”

Moriarty chuckled, turning back around to strike a feminine pose, knees together, hip out, with a hand brought gingerly to his mouth to cover the giggle. He waved a scolding hand at him, like a 1950’s all-american-girl turning down a suave gentleman’s flattery.  “Oh, Sherlock, we haven’t even disposed of John’s corpse yet.  Stop trying to ply me with your sweet words, you black widow.”  He opened his arms wide and laughed, “Besides, we are just gettin’ to the good stuff.  Let’s make a filthy mess of this fantastically holy place!”

Sherlock leaned over and spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, before he glanced back up at the demon.  “Boring.”

“Ooooh,” Moriarty cooed, as he rubbed his hands vigorously together, “I’m afraid you’ve already been cast and believe me, baby, this is your staring role!”  The mad man’s head dipped ever so slightly, as the enlarge pupil took over the rest of the white left of his eyes, leaving nothing but pitch in their wake.  His hands flew apart and he snapped his fingers, as he crowed, “Simon says…cry.”

Sherlock was shocked to feel the trickle of tears on his cheeks, running down in a steady flow to mingle with the blood that had since re-coated his chin after the tongue assault.  His fingers came up to verify this, as though he needed that reassurance that it was actually happening.  He wiped the tears away, casting Moriarty a dubious look all the same.

Moriarty looked upon him charitably, crooning, “Oh, this is an emotional time, isn’t it? You just got John back and now you’re going to do away with him again.”

His hands raised upwards as though lifting a great mass and suddenly Sherlock was lurching to his feet against his own will. A disorienting and high-pitched squeal began resonating in his head as his vision shifted. The room and its contents appeared distorted and removed, as if viewed through a fisheye lens. As if he watched from a location behind his own eyes. A horrible tingling numbness filling his limbs as he came fully and jarringly upright.

“Simon says… come forward, my child.” The mirth in his tone was weakly suppressed as he gesticulated his fingers, like a mime pulling on an invisible rope. He was beaconing, as Sherlock’s body lurched forward despite the man’s utter intent to do otherwise. 

Again, Sherlock’s mind was reeling at the reality presented before him, as he was puppeted along by a demon that stood before a golden alter in a medieval holy chapel. In all the experiments he had undertaken with illicit drugs and mind-altering substances, this was by far the most surreal trip.  Even the worst of his cocktail blunders and experiments hand never left him as disjointed from his physical being as at this moment

“Neat trick, huh?” Moriarty winked as Sherlock’s feet drug on the dark burgundy carpet, scrabbling to find purchase.

"You've obviously had the ability to control others for some time. It explains Lestat's behavior recently and possibly since the beginning." Sherlock knew Moriarty. Knew that in the end, it was all a game. A puzzle to be solved to show who was the cleverest. If there was any salvation it could only come in solving it. 

"Little late on the uptake. I really thought you would have gotten more interesting. You know, what with plucking you out of your safe, normal, boring little world and showing you all the deep waters running below." Moriarty smirked, tipping his head towards the vampires at his side. The one his slave and the other his victim.

John, still restrained by his maker, seemed to be regaining his faculties slowly. Lestat’s eyes were downcast, lost yet not vacant. The utter stillness was unsettlingly, statuesque, and still Sherlock was reminded of how wild and without precedent the current circumstances were to him.

He had come to stop in front of the morbid imposter who still played bishop and the man who had once been James Moriarty. It seemed clear that Moriarty still wanted what he had all along, to beat and break Sherlock. Killing him had been too easy before and the lives of those he cared about had been the leverage that had sent them both to the underworld. The difference was that Sherlock came back a man and Moriarty had come back a demon who had brought a whole world of other monsters with him.

"Why all this?" Sherlock asked, he needed to stall for time to find someway out of this inescapable predicament. 

"Don't be dull." Moriarty emphasized the statement with a dramatic roll of his eyes. He snapped his fingers and Sherlock was slapped violently across the cheek by his own rogue hand. The detective staggered with the surprise of the blow more than the force, though his cheek stung and eyes watered as the pain intensified around his swollen nose. 

John had begun to struggle a little now, the loud and sudden smack of his friends somewhat self-inflicted punishment, sobering him by proxy. Although the vampire seemed to be growing more aware he was still terribly weakened and it hurt Sherlock to see John only manage to squirm against the steel arms of Moriarty’s slave.

Marisa still sat passively behind them, a spectator to all of this. She was as quiet and unmoving as Lestat, yet the detective knew that she was acting of her own free will. She was not bound by any puppeteers’ strings.

The demon noticed his gaze and reflection. “Ain’t she just sweet?” the demon whispered, flicking his eyes back at the puffin-girl. “My double agent. She got the best of Lestat and you. Too sweet and innocent looking to cause alarm or suspicion. Ludvik, that bumbling toad, walked right into my trap, all because of that perfect pink pout of hers.”

Sherlock said nothing. There was no use perpetuating this mockery.

"Have you figured it all out yet, Sherly? I mean, it really doesn't matter in the end. There's no stopping what is going to happen here…now…but it is kind of fun to watch your little hamster brain at work. Run, run, run, all you like. You’re just spinning your wheel." Moriarty reached out a hand and hooked a finger in the collar of John’s button down. Like running his finger through warm butter, he effortlessly popped the buttons of the plain cotton shirt. Tinkering, the hard plastic buttons shot loose of their thread bonds, some hitting the stone floor and other thunking off the wall of saintly portraits. 

"He--yuh!" John’s indignation was stifled by a yelp as Lestat's arm lock tightened with the sickening sound of flesh and joints being squeezed. Like a nut in the hold of a slowly tightening vice, the fledgling vampire, weakened as he was, was hapless to do anything about it. Lestat's expression hadn't changed and Moriarty only continued to be amused with his well laid plans.

"His strings are easier to pull than yours." Moriarty commented snidely, as the blond vampire’s arms flexed. John winced, and a painful moan hissed past his lips, as his head lulled up to look at Sherlock. With his body weak beyond reasoning, the soldier’s will was faltering. 

The resolution of avenging Mary seemed a hollow victory now. It was highly probable that the order given by the rebel leader Ludvik, dead outside on the castle grounds, had been another manipulation by Moriarty all along. Another thread in the spider’s web of destruction.

"It would seem so." Sherlock replied, fighting the control over him. He tried to will his body to listen and rebel, as the demon’s cold hand patted his cheek admonishingly. 

"At least your putting up a bit of a fight. Though Lestat tried there was no chance for him. I had my fingers so deep inside my little Angel I think I lost a ring. Such patience was required, and he was so painfully eager he almost botched it up a time or two, thinking he could have a will of his own again. Sad really." Moriarty was reveling in his triumph, lording it over his captive audience.

The dark eyed man grazed a finger horizontally across John’s chest, up and down. It was almost intimate. The pads of his fingers moved soft and trailing over the exposed marble flesh, running from his victim’s pink nipples down over his sternum and hardened abdominals. The finger tips looped around the dip of his naval, skimmed along the top of the blue jeans, tucked inside just enough to be provocative, before starting upwards again. Just under the arch of the left ribcage, the fingers stopped. They paused there a moment, as those dark eyes glanced from John’s drooping lids back to Sherlock’s. The nails of the fingers grew longer and sharp. Moriarty flashed this new weapon, wiggling his fingers playfully, before moving them across the flesh in a ripping motion. Dark scarlet beads of blood suddenly pearled along a razors-edge cut. The beading gave way, as the cut elongated upwards along the white bone of the rib cage to the sternum, rivulets of blood washed down the pale expanse of torso. John gasped, sucking in a large gapping mouthful of air, the expansion of his diaphragm hindered by the surgical-like incision slashed across his left side. 

Sherlock was powerless. Truly powerless, as it appeared they all were. Moriarty giggled, as he leaned forward to run a finger through the blood. His hands came away crimson and he gave another delighted chuckle, as he brought the fingers to his mouth. When his lips parted this time to lick the fingers clean, like a child might lick ice cream from their hand, the teeth were more vampiric, no longer clustered needles, but straight and perfect, barring the elongated eye teeth. He savored the taste of the blood, slowly pulling back on each digit, his lips making a loud satisfied smacking sound as he did so. He purred like an excited child, his eyes screwing shut as though in ecstasy.

The little struggle that John had managed to put up now ceased. It was never clearer that blood had everything to do with Moriarty’s power over all of them. He had licked Sherlock’s face and taken over his body, now John was placid as he hung, bleeding out.

Normally a vampire showed a remarkable ability to regenerate with haste after an injury. John’s wound, however, lacked any similar characteristic. The wound was raw and open, showing no signs of doing anything but remaining that way. Sherlock did not know what would happen if John did bleed out.

"Have you figured it all out yet, Sherlock? All the pieces and all the moves....” Moriarty crooned, with his head tilted back rolling from side to side with each statement, “and how early oooon in this game you lost?" He drew out the last word, enunciating the ‘t’ loudly.

The demon’s gloating knew no bounds. He simply stood there, either awaiting his opponent’s admittance of defeat, so he could revel in the verbalization of his victory, or else he wanted to be lavished with praise for his workings. He would receive none of these from the detective.

The brunet set his jaw, meeting the black gaze of the demon. "What will you do when I'm gone, Moriarty?” his reply was flat, even though it was defiant.  He scoffed, watching the demon steel his exterior flesh to restrict any visible physical reaction to the words and attitude directed at him. Anything to buy time, to keep him talking, to slow this down.  “It’s obvious you need me to sustain and entertain you.”

What the detective had thought to be ground breaking truth that would reel the monster’s pride in, like a worm on a hook, only earned him a mocking sarcastic expression of dramatized surprise. The theatrics were getting on the genius’ nerves. Moriarty’s hands raised to cover his gapping maw, as suddenly the demeanor shifted, becoming nonplussed, his shoulders shrugged.  "Oh, I have lots to keep me motivated.  Don't worry.” The demon winked at him, and added graciously, “You've been a fond toy, Sherlock, but I think I'm quite done.” 

With a sudden jerk of movement, the detective’s body moved forward. It was a slow progress, as he resisted the control. It made his feet move sluggishly, as though he were physically weak. Resisting was difficult and painful. It made every muscle in his body burn with the deep aching of tension. It solved little. Two steps forward and the detective was so close to John that he could reach out and stroke his pale cheeks.

John looked miserable. His pallid skin was stony and grey, becoming more translucent as he lost blood. The front of his torso was a slick mess of deep alizarin crimson. It soaked into the jeans, until the dense fabric could hold no more. It dripped onto the floor, marring the beauty of this holy place. Sherlock had seen terrible things done by depraved people but never had the horror of blood on a body been as disturbing as it was now, on John. His John.

The vampire struggled to keep his head upright. It lulled forward in his weakened state, like he were nodding off. John tried to look at him, to keep eye contact. Those dark stormy eyes were deep and intent now that the brunet had forgotten about mocking their tormentor. Those eyes said a thousand unsaid words, unfished thoughts, restricted longings and yearnings. It made his own heart spasm, as his gut filled with ice.

Sherlock felt the prickle of Moriarty’s control crackle along the base of his skull down through his nervous system to his right hand. Although he put forth every effort to stop it, his fingers slowly closed into a ball. He could feel his bicep burning, the tendons in his arm flexing to recoil his arm. His arm punched forward, his fist pounding through the weakened vampirical flesh of John’s chest. The hand had slid cleanly through into the gaping wound, as the vampire silently screamed in agony.

His vision misted and blurred, going in and out of focus, as the detective felt his fingers unclench, forming the shade of a spear. The feeling of his hand climbing up past organs, coring deeper into the vampire, made him gag on bile. His bicep flexed and he shoved his hand further, the rapid thrumming of the reanimated heart coming into contact with his fingertips. 

"No! No-no-no-no!" Sherlock could hear himself crying out, over and over again.  The mantra he repeated sounding like an echo in a well, distant and useless.

The fisheye of his vision was focused on John’s sightless eyes, welling with bloody tears, as the vampire’s teeth gnashed together. He strained to somehow manage the pain.  Moriarty was there, his head thrown back as he guffawed with laughter and applauded them both. Sherlock tried to tune it out, just like he tuned out the feeling of his own fingers circling John’s beating heart. 

Sherlock realized at once that the heart was beating and really should not be. John was a vampire. He was for every right dead—or the undead, which most literature preferred. John was making it beat. In losing his control of his mind his body was running on autopilot and fear had taken over. His body was responding to Sherlock’s aggressive invasion as though adrenaline were emptying into his blood stream, making his heart race and his lungs burn for oxygen they no longer needed.

This realization was both helpful and irrelevant. He knew that even if he did tear the heart from John, it may not be the death blow. He knew from the books that it was the head that would need to be removed in order to kill a vampire. Or fire.

Moriarty’s words flooded his mind, _I will burn the heart…out of you._ And Sherlock realized, he may have already lost this game.

The detective inhaled a deep breath and blew it out.  He wanted to close his eyes, but they resolutely remained open against his own will, burning with the wicking of tears.  The pads of his fingers moved over the muscles of the pulsating heart under their grasp, as his hand pushed ever deeper. The cool wetness of the body tightened around his forearm was disillusioning. Even more so was the feeling of his hand finally encircling the fist sized organ.  John cried out, gasping for breath, as the front of his torso wept faster.  His head snapped forward, his breathing now ragged. He lost the fight to control the pain Sherlock inflicted.

He grunted, like he always did when baring physical or emotional pain. And then he spoke. It was barely above a whisper.  “I-I forgive you.” The vampire ground out.  “For…all of it…everything.”

“Oh, John, please!” Moriarty roared in disgust and mocking laughter, “It’s so damn sweet, I think I might have to possess a dentist after this to fix all the cavities!”

Sherlock felt his fingers closing, the pads that once tickled the valves now slowly crushing together.  John gasped. His teeth gnashed together. He sputtered for a breath, red tears slipping down his white cheeks.

The detective closed off his mind, shut the doors of his mind palace, and fled the scene.  With all the will power that remained at his control Sherlock focused his mind.  Focused on one thing.  John.  Watson.

He lost the feeling of his fingers slowly squeezing about the heart in their possession.  Instead his hand felt the warmth of another, their fingers interlocked, white knuckled, as their legs pumped.  The only sound in his ears was not the sound of John screaming, but the gasp and hitch of his breath as they ran through the darkened London streets slicked with the ever persistent wet.  He remembered the pinch and pull of thread and needle, as John’s warm hands tended to a gash on his brow.  He remembered the smile, half-crooked, sitting across from him in their chairs by the fire, as a clients rambling was lost in his ears.  He remembered the glow on his cheeks, as they lay next to one another in the bed, both too terribly enthralled by the other to sleep, even though their limbs were heavy with fatigue. 

“What?  Sherlock?  Play along now…” the sound pierced his veil.  Moriarty was calling to him from somewhere outside where he hid.  “Simon says... _play_!”

The word hit the detective like a clap of thunder, loud enough to shake his foundation. Reality came smashing back like a surge of electricity. He had not lost. There was still one more thing he could do.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He went deep within himself to the mind palace and flung open the doors. All the information, all the data, and the history, calculations, experiments, theories, hypotheses, and all the memories of he and John that he stored within this sacred place of his mind, raged through him like a gale-forced torrent, straight into Moriarty. He let it all out. Let Moriarty have all of it. Every last piece of information he had filed away, het out of himself.

Sherlock felt his hand begin to pull back on the organ within their grasp. Then his ears were flooded with the violent sound of hacking and coughing, the terrible retching of someone choking.  His vision cleared, his finger loosed, and his hand stopped.

Something had happened. Something had changed. The prick at the back of his skull was absent. Free to move, his head snapped to assess the demon.

Moriarty was the one choking. His black eyes were spread wide enough that there was white about the enlarged black pupil. His eyes bulged from their sockets, his cheeks ballooned, as his hands clawed at his own throat, ripping crimson stripes into the flesh above the collar of his shirt. His lips were fish-lipped, a chain visible between them.  

John’s weight fell forward against Sherlock and he was forced to look away from the retching demon. His hand was still finding its way out of the body cavity, as the feral snarls covered the coughing and hacking from the other man.

Sherlock fell to his knees, supporting the weight of his lover. John’s head was on his shoulder, as he turned back to see Marisa stepping back from Moriarty, who still clawed at whatever was in his throat. The red head ordered for Lestat to finish the job and the blond graciously accepted without hesitation. The smaller body of Moriarty was taken into the hands of the experienced killer with a violent thrash of movement. Sherlock had a hard time following at the speed with which the vampire moved. Lestat grabbed the cloying hands of the man from behind. His knee raised, bracing against the back of the creature, as he pulled. The arms were torn free of the torso with little effort expended. Black blood, thick and hot spilled out from the dark holes that remained.

Lestat repeated this process with the man’s legs, pinning the screaming torso down with his foot before yanking the limbs free. The head was last. Moriarty still screamed and cursed, around the object in his throat. When it was done, the vampire held the head of their tormentor out towards the puffin girl. He bent his knee, making this an offering to her. She bowed her head in return, before stepping forward to pry to dead man’s jaw open. She pulled back on the chain and out came the ancient amulet.

The artifact resonated with a purple glow, that cast refracted light about the room, displaying its intricate gem-cut. It lit the planes of the girls face with an eerie light. Sherlock could see the curve of satisfaction on her full lips, before she closed her eyes, and began to spout a latin incantation. The words were so soft that Sherlock lost half of them.

The detective was unsettled, unsure what to do.  John’s palor was deathly ashen and the gaping hole in his torso was ugly, raw, and still weeping.  It refused to close, to heal like it should given the gift of vampirism.  Sherlock’s own hands were covered with blood, stained dark to his elbow.  He tried to look past them, but was even more horrified at the shallow breaths that barely managed to lift the vampire’s chest.  His heart was still intact, still pumped, but seemed to be on the verge of collapse.  John’s head lolled towards him, his eyelids closed, and his cheeks slick with red tears. 

Sherlock was helpless.  He glanced up, searching for someone, anyone that could help him.  He didn’t know what to do.  He didn’t have the power to do anything.

As Marisa’s words came to a conclusion, a glowing circle formed on the floor around the dismembered body. The circle was some kind of ancient symbol, filled with a pentagram, surrounded by five symbols that Sherlock did not recognize.  This symbol glowed brilliantly, the light shining upwards, as the walls and floor shivered with the rush of power. Like an electrical current, it moved through the room, gathering at the symbol, as though sucked towards it. From the severed opening of the demon’s head there was a sudden rush of blackness.  The cloud of black particulates whipped around them all like sand stirred in a dust-devil.  It screamed like a hellish wind storm, as though lost in the room now that it was free of its vessel.  Lestat stood upright in the black maelstrom and the head in his hands fell to the floor, rolling several times away. The blackness that encircled them spiraled in a dark vortex to the low height of the gold and glass plated ceiling, smashing into it.  Unable to escape, the scream of it grew louder, piercing, before it was violently sucked downwards into the center of the glowing pentagram on the floor.  In a matter of milliseconds, the demonic force was imbibed, and the symbol vanished.

When it had finished, the air settled, and silence filled the room.  The body was left, lifeless and suddenly overcome with decay, a rotting pile of flesh and bones, putrid and foul smelling. The gun wound inflicted on the roof, so long ago, still evidently the vessels demise.  Moriarty had never truly lived after that day. He was dressed by the dark magic of the demon to appear that way. Sherlock still questioned, in the end, who had been the true puppet, Moriarty or the demon?

Marisa contemptuously spit on the body, cursing in Latin. The amethyst colored stone that had shimmered with its beautifully crafted pentagonal cut was now black as pitch and completely matte.  She slipped the gold length of chain over her head and nestled the demonic gem under the buttons of her white military cut blouse.  She flipped the length of her blazing red hair out of the chain, as she stated very plainly, “Rot for eternity in there, you cock.”     

“Someone help me!” Sherlock demanded, “The wound, it’s not healing!”

Lestat was beside him in a flash of unseen movement.  The vampire was kneeling across John’s body from the detective and Sherlock found his wrist in his grip. His icy eyes were filled with genuine concern, as he glanced from his newest fledgling and back.  “He needs blood.” Lestat said, as if asking permission.

Sherlock nodded, and the vampire ran his fingernail like razor across his wrist, cutting him open with a crisp crush.  The detective lowered his wrist to John’s mouth.  The blood dripped onto the still lips. 

To his relief and surprise, they parted, and the mouth opened.  Sherlock pressed the open wound closer and could feel the mouth latch on.  He grunted in pain, wincing, as the blood was pulled out.  Lestat opened his own wrist and twisted it to force his own blood out over the wound in John’s torso.  Slowly the raw edges of the hole began to shift and move, growing pink, as the muscle and skin rebuilt itself. 

The detective began to feel weak, as hands came up to clamp onto his wrist, and the mouth began to greedily draw from his veins. 

Marisa stepped closer and smiled warmly at the trio on the floor.  She reached out a hand, steadying Sherlock’s shoulder. “He will be alright,” she said, reassuringly. She knelt down and leaned in, kissing his cheek chastely, as she whispered, “It looks like you got what you wanted afterall, Sherlock. You two deserve to be together…forever.”

He managed a weak smile, before she added, to all present, “Well, as much as I wanna’ stay and see you three off, I really should split.”

“Off so soon?” Lestat crooned at her, his voice unable to keep from sounding disdained.

“I gotta’ get this bad boy back where it belongs.” She said. The amulet, as if having heard itself being reference in the conversation, gave a bright purple pulse of light that shown out from where she had tucked it under her blouse.

“Talmasca?” the vampire wished for confirmation.

Her mouth slipped into a patronizing close-lipped smile. “There is no safer place, than some dark dusty file room, where it will be ignored and forgotten about.”

“You still work for them?” Lestat queried, baffled by the very idea and why he had so readily believed her lies.

“Never stopped.” She confirmed. Her eyes rolled and she tipped her head from shoulder to shoulder in a bobbing motion, as she shrugged and admitted, “Probably never will.”

“Undercover the whole time. You must have been planted years in advance. You took out two threats with one fateful arrangement of individuals.” The older vampire said aloud, drawing on his knowledge and experience with the organization to make his deductions. “You are a very good liar.” Lestat complimented the girl.

She shrugged again, with a wide grin and a wink, as she corrected, “I prefer to think I’m a very good agent and that, yeah, I just saved the world from knowing about the supernatural undercurrent of our society and war with them. With all of your help guys, although, you won’t get any of the credit. You know how they work. Operatio non loqui.”

Sherlock was still curious about the amulet that she had somehow managed to shove down Moriarty’s throat while they were all distracted by the gruesome spectacle the demon was making of the pair of them, but he was unable to say a word before the girl blinked out of existence, with a chipper final salutation, “It’s been a splice, boys.” As she teleported to wherever it was the mysterious organization kept these powerful ancient relics, the detective doubted he would ever see her again.

The man took a deep breath. His inhalation was staggered, and his vision began to swim about him.  John still drank, moaning with pleasure, as he guzzled down the blood. The detective grew woozy, the warm haze of the blood connection fading to the cooler zone of too much. Lestat pulled his own forearm away from the other vampire’s stomach and Sherlock could see that the hole had closed, but was still pink with fresh tissue.  Lestat then moved in to separated them. 

They both protested.  “That’s enough, Sherlock.” Lestat explained.  He stood and as he did, pulled the detective to his feet with him.   “I can’t let him bleed you dry, we don’t have time to turn you now.”

John growled and rolled over onto his side, his hands moving to his new priority—the pain in his stomach.  The vampire was still slightly weak and made no attempt to get to his feet.

“He needs more.” Sherlock objected, trying to shake off his own weariness.

“It will have to wait.” Lestat said, “We have to get out of here. Moriarty’s control over this room has left along with him. The alarms have all tripped and we are about to have a very unhelpful meeting with castle security.”

Sherlock felt the vampire’s arms encircle him and everything else was a blur.  The movement was so fast that the mortal was unable to stay conscious.  All Sherlock remembered before he blacked out was the crashing of glass and splintering of wood, before every other sound was consumed by the rushing of wind in his ears.

 

***

 

The vampire had barely busted out of the castle before they were caught by the rushing authorities. It had been doubly hard considering he had to manhandle not only his incapacitated fledgling but the very weakened mortal detective as well. He had not wanted to mar the beautiful chapel even more than it already had been due to Moriarty’s thwarted plans but he had been left little choice. The disorientating effects of the spider-demons control was so slow to wear off, that he had not heard the marshalled security until their route of escape had been blocked. He may have been mentally hampered by the drug-like control Moriarty had used over him, but he was his physical powers were not weakened. He blasted a hole in the stone wall and rushed out into the night, taking flight as he did so, a passenger under each arm.

He propelled himself up into the sky using his cloud gift, disappearing into the darkness of night and the glare of the city lights. The night air was warm, especially above the metropolitan area, and he reveled in the way the air whipped at his curls and ruffled the cassock, as he flew unseen by the mortals below.

He was free at last. He took pleasure in it, thankful that the puffin had seen fit to save them all.

How unassuming that little strawberry-tart had been. So conveniently available to take in his detective and care for him, for such a small insignificant price. How he hated himself for ever falling victim to that blasted demon Moriarty and his schemes. He certainly felt the fool. It mattered little now though. He could solve nothing by rebuking himself for his past mistakes—he had not yet and he did not want to make a habit of starting now. All he could do was move on and make the best of it. He had hurt many but hurt he knew could be mended, like any garment, with time and care.

The detective under his right arm, had passed out, shortly after he had taken to the air with the cloud gift. He supposed in his haste, he may have traveled too fast for the blood-drained mortal to withstand. All the same, Sherlock was safe now. Safe from his own past mistakes, that had hunted and haunted him, drawing in those that he cared for most as collateral.

John on the other hand, was starting to rouse. Lestat feared retaliation—rightfully deserved given the autrocities he had committed against the two men he now whisked to safety. The maker was quick to pacify his fledgling as best he could with a brief recap of the last tumultuous events, as John became aware of their current situation. To his surprise, the young vampire cursed him and then thanked him, making Lestat grin with pride.

He made his way with them back home, to London, sailing high above the continent below on the cloud gift.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

 

 

John drew a slow deep breath, body coming alive as the sun finally slipped over the horizon, washing the world in the ever darkening greys of dusk. Even without opening his eyes he knew where he was, the both familiar and strange scents of 221B Baker Street wafted to his nose, his heightened senses processing through them in the blink of an eye. He was home. His other senses flared as he caught the near tangible scent of Sherlock. Hunger began a slow burn deep in his stomach; one that he was growing accustomed to and quickly fought down to a manageable level.

His eyes flashed open, gaze drawn to the source of his temptation. In a blur of motion he sat up, the thin blanket he no longer required falling to his waist as he spotted the wayward detective. The tall man lay curled on his side at the far edge of the bed, one hand tucked protectively against his pale chest, the other outstretched as though unconsciously reaching for John during the daylight hours.

The genius always looked so small and defenceless like this, so guileless and innocent when curled in that way. John, however, knew that the other man was none of these things and while the picture he made while asleep had always conjured such fantastical ideas, they were far from the truth. But he was weaker than John, especially now, and this man was someone that John had to protect at all costs. He couldn’t lose Sherlock again, not to anything.

Unbidden, his fingers came out to ghost a trail along the exposed underside of the detective’s arm. It was soft and smooth, the hard muscle shifting beneath his fingertips and the man shifted, sprawling closer to the immortal. John couldn’t help the smile that drifted across his face at that. “I know you’re awake, Sherlock.” He chided the man softly, not wanting to break the calm atmosphere.

Slowly one eyelid cracked open revealing eyes that to John’s new vision seemed to glow with intelligence. “I thought we agreed to not share a bed.” He muttered the words softly, as he drank in the sight of the detective rolling onto his back, the blanket slipping to expose his lean, well defined chest. Leisurely the man stretched his long form out, fingers grazing against the headboard, feet reaching off the end of the bed before his body relaxed fully.

A small smirk flitted onto the angelic face as he looked through half lidded eyes at John, knowing the image he made. “You demanded that we not share a bed.” He drew one leg up, forcing the blanket he had been curled under to shift and pool at the juncture of his hip. This revealed that he wore what he customarily did when crawling into bed—nothing. “I did not capitulate to your ridiculous demand.”

That newly exposed leg had its desired effect, momentarily distracting John from the potential argument. The remembered feel of the appendage wrapped around his hips, as he thrust into the owner of the limb, was so vivid that he began to harden from that memory alone. Quickly he looked away, catching the knowing look the other man had on his face. John scowled at the wall while he convinced his libido that he was not going to jump the man in bed with him.

He needed to get dressed and out, he needed to feed. The hunger was beginning to burn inside of him, consuming more and more of his thoughts with each second that ticked by. What he wanted to do however had nothing to do with leaving this room. Hell, it had nothing to do with leaving this bed for that matter. He turned fully away from the temptation sprawled out like a feast, feet touching down on the cool wooden floor as he prepared to vacate the room.

“John.” The immortal twitched as he felt Sherlock’s long, cool fingers graze a delicious path along his spine. Quicker than he had thought the other man capable of Sherlock was up and crouched behind John’s hunched form. He suppressed a shudder as his hunger built at the name falling from those perfect lips. Deft, feather light touches drew his thoughts away from leaving and back to the lithe man behind him.

John had thought that the detective was going to say more, but instead, he lowered his head, dark curls brushing along John’s sensitized skin and began dropping nips and kisses along his shoulders. Fingers scraped along his ribs, slowly, seductively coiling around his torso, clutching him to Sherlock’s chest. One hand stayed splayed over his no longer beating heart, the other tracing slow patterns along his stomach.

John shuddered, waves of arousal coursing through him as his lover mouth trailed up the back of his neck, teeth scraping against the skin, but not breaking the flesh. He found himself smiling as Sherlock grasped his jaw, forcing him to turn his head. Talented lips trailed along his eternally smooth jaw until finally their mouths met.

Their kiss wasn’t soft or sweet, it was hard and aggressive, a silent demand from both for more. With John’s hunger pulling at him he wasn’t thinking anymore. In a sudden twisting of his body faster than any mortal could see he had Sherlock flat on his back, pinned to the mattress. He hunched over the man, legs straddling him, hands to either side of his head.

Sherlock groaned low in the back of his throat beneath the immortal, tri-coloured eyes blazing when they locked with John’s own. He could see the faster than light thoughts flickering through the genius’s mind, far too fast for John to pick out just what he was thinking. One word, however, seemed to repeat in the background, a low hum that reverberated through John’s entire being. Mine.

With that territorial proclamation blazing through both of their brains John leaned in, their mouths meeting in a crushing demand. Open and hungry, their tongues fought for dominance. Every invading sweep of his tongue, every careful nip of teeth was a silent statement to submit. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him once more, a trapping embrace that pulled at John until their bodies were flush.

They ground against one another, the feel of smooth, hard skin under grasping hands demanding more bringing both their hungers to a fever pitch. The detective was not giving in, meeting every kiss with a dark intensity of his own, hands clenching and body grinding up against his captor. When he hooked a leg around John’s hip, spine arching to grind more fully against him, John felt another thread of his control snap.

Growling low in his throat he bared his teeth, sharp incisors flashing before he dropped his head back down. He took control of the kiss, dominant and aggressive, almost brutal in its intensity. With every thrust of his body against his lover and every threatening nip of teeth, Sherlock became more and more compliant, giving the older man what he wanted.

Sherlock coiled his tongue around one of his fangs, the canine cutting a line across the centre. Blood filled both of their mouths in an instant. They both cried out at the sweet tang, mouths beginning to duel once more. With that first taste of crimson on his tongue the last thread of control he’d had snapped and all thought of John leaving was gone. He was ravenous, his own tongue coiling around the wound, drawing it into his mouth and sucking the minor cut, drawing more of that delicious taste to him.

With the gasp of a drowning man John wrenched his head back, panting air he didn’t need he took in the sight of Sherlock’s dazed and aroused face, blood glistening wetly along the bottom of his lip. More desire shot through him as he watched the detective's tongue swipe the blood away on a throaty moan. He lowered his head, teeth grazing along the pale of length exposed flesh before nipping gently at the collarbone. He pressed kisses up one side and down the neck before beginning his slow descent.

John mouthed, nipped and sucked at the smooth expanse of chest, finding a nipple and lapping at it. His fingers toyed with the other, lightly pinching and rolling it as his lips tormented the one before him. He wanted more than just blood. He wanted to be inside this man while he drank.

Any inhibitions that he’d had left had been washed away by the taste of the other man’s essence on his tongue. His teeth threatened dangerous promises along Sherlock’s torso while his fingers traced down, seeking and finding the other man’s straining erection. The immortal gripped him and began to stroke in a deliberately slow pace, fingers shifting and wrist twisting as he worked his way up and down the length.

Hand stroking down to the base, he squeezed gently while nipping hard at the nipple between his teeth. He relished the guttural cry that burst from the man beneath him, panting breaths and unvoiced plea pursed on his lips. Sherlock’s fingers wound their way into John’s hair, fingers clenching and relaxing, unconsciously mimicking the pace of the immortal's fingers wrapped so perfectly around him.

“John,” The name was wrenched from his throat as the detective felt an impossibly smooth cheek brush against his thigh before John nuzzled his erection. He breathed over the straining cock, tongue flicking out to lick the head as his hand continued its slow torment.

“Do you want this?” John all but breathed the words across the pulsing hardness he slowly pumped. His eyes travelled up the pale length of perfect skin that was his lover, admiring every single inch and wanting it all.

“You know I do,” Sherlock’s voice was strained, breaths coming in short ragged bursts. His chest heaved while fingers clenched tightly around blond locks. His muscles strained as he found himself torn between trying to force John’s mouth on him and allowing the pace the other man set.

With a low chuckle John licked the side of the shaft. Taking his time, he traced the tip of his tongue along the underside from base to tip, enjoying the explosion of unintelligible sounds coming from above him. Once he had reached the top he parted his lips, wrapping them around the head. Sucking softly, his canines grazing the sensitive sides he lowered his mouth until all of his lover was taken in. Thankful now that he didn’t have to breathe he held Sherlock’s hips still when the man thrust up with a reverberating groan.

He pulled back, sucking as his tongue coiled around the head, before delving back down. His hands kneaded Sherlock’s ass as his head continued to bob, fingers tracing along the rim to his entrance, circling closer and harder every time he sunk down. The detective’s hips had begun rocking to the rhythm of the older man’s mouth and hands, arching into the warm wet suction and trying to grind himself into the cool teasing fingers below.

“Stop-!” Sherlock gasped at the multitude of sensations filling him, spine arching as his fingers dug into John’s scalp. “Teasing me.” The words were almost a plea as he groaned again, twisting and writhing under the expertise of his lover’s hands and mouth.

John chuckled, the sound reverberating along the cock he had just swallowed to the hilt. He took great satisfaction in making this man go insane with pleasure. I was one of the rare times when he had the upper hand and he was not about to cut that short. He languished affection on the erection, tongue, teeth and lips caressing the sensitive skin. He carefully wrung out every sound he could from the man beneath him, relishing every groan, every gasp and sigh.

His saliva had begun to drip down, creating the lubrication his fingers needed and on a torturously slow downward motion with his mouth, he pushed his index finger in. He relished the full body jerk and the near painful fingers in his hair as he slowly withdrew with both mouth and finger before plunging in again.

Sherlock’s fingers ripped free of his hair on a guttural groan, instead fisting the sheets tightly. His back arched as John's thumb began a slow massage against his perineum. More sounds fell unbidden from his lips, almost a plea, nearly a demand. Desire and possession thrummed through John’s veins as he added another finger.

“John!” The name was wrenched from the other man’s throat in a rush as the immortal increased the pace of his fingers, sliding in and out in an age-old dance. He couldn’t imagine never having this again, couldn’t stomach the idea of losing this man, who tore him apart and made him something better. He would destroy anyone or anything that threatened what was his.

With a low growl of possession, he pulled his mouth away and withdrew his fingers. In a lightning quick motion, he settled himself against the curve of Sherlock’s ass, pressing lightly against his entrance. Mine, the thought filled his mind again. He bowed his head to catch Sherlock’s gasping mouth in a deep bruising kiss and slowly pushed forward, breaching his lover until they were finally one.

Their shouts mingled with the copper taste that still lingered in Sherlock’s mouth as they froze. Each relished and basked in the feel of the other man, the remembered passions of all their times before bleeding into this new experience. Sherlock was the one to end their stolen moment in time. His hips shifted as his legs coiled around John’s waist. He pulled John to him, grasping him with tightly with arms and legs, head bowing into the curve of the other man’s shoulder as though refusing to ever let go.

John dropped feather light kisses in his hair and down the exposed length of neck and began long, slow thrusts into the other man. He lost himself in the feel, the scent and sounds of his lover. It was perfect, their bodies made for one another. The familiarity of the other man’s body was a soothing balm to his tattered soul, the sounds a warm caress against his heart. The immortal pressed in deep before retreating. Show in his motions he rocked them into ever increasing level of pleasure, wanting this to last. His hand found its way into dark curls, the soft silk sliding through his fingers.

“Yes, there!” Sherlock moaned the command as his head rolled back, eyes squeezing shut as he shuddered in pleasure. The man’s body tightened as he arched into the more intense sensations, fingers digging into John’s back as he silently demanded more.

John obliged, continuing to thrust in that perfect position, pace slowly increasing as his need grew more intense. The sounds dripping from Sherlock’s lips were music in his ears. He pressed further, deeper, wanting to crawl inside the man, mark him as John’s for all eternity. He ached, not just for this but also for the blood he could almost taste just under the surface of the skin he was kissing.

He nuzzled the femoral artery, his steely arms trapping Sherlock beneath him. Unable to resist any more he struck, head darting in and teeth sinking cleanly into the exposed neck. The first burst of coppery liquid on his tongue shot excruciating pleasure through his being and he ground down hard into his lover. John lapped and suckled at the clean punctures drawing more blood with each swallow.

With every draw of the rich red substance he thrust harder, the detective's body embracing and meeting him every time. The detective’s nails raked over his marble-like skin, scoring red-hot trails along John's back, as the younger man cried out in pleasure.

John could feel everything coiling deep inside and fought to hold onto this just a little bit longer, just a little bit more. Sherlock tasted exquisite, like a fine scotch with subtle notes that no mortal could or would ever be able to appreciate. With a pained gasp, John tore his mouth away from the temptation. He knew he couldn’t take much after everything the other man had gone through in the last twenty-four hours. But the temptation was there, to take as much as he could stand and damn the consequences.

Sherlock mad a low sound of discontent as John’s mouth, the one that was layering so much pleasure on top of what they were already feeling left him. With a growl that rumbled deep in his chest, he tilted his own head and mouth flashing wide for a bare moment bit down into John’s shoulder.

John’s body twitched at the pleasure-pain and began pumping harder as he felt the teeth break the skin. Ecstasy filled him as he felt the first pulls of blood being drawn from him. His own head dipping back down he began to lap at the red leaking from his lover’s neck. All thoughts left the immortal as they made love. Blood and desire tied them together, winding them to greater heights that they had ever been before. Mouths pulled life into themselves as their pace became erratic. Their bodies were hard but yielding against the other as they strove for completion.

In that instant John knew that what Sherlock offered him was everything that he had, everything he was and everything he could be. John also knew that he would take it, had been without this man for too long and couldn’t be without again. As he possessed this man, he was in turn possessed. He was bound forever to the man who had torn him apart once before but had also put him back together.

He tore his lips away from Sherlock’s throat with a shout, everything pooling for the barest instant before he came. Wave after wave flooded through him. Hands clenching into the mattress, John felt the material rip under the strength of his grip as he shuddered. Sherlock’s cry of completion echoing his own as he clenched around John, fingers ripping through the sheets with ease as he rode his own orgasm.

They froze in that position for long seconds, each straining into the other before gravity had them collapsing into the ruin of what was once had been a very fine bed. They lay like that for a long time, both silently relishing in the feel of the other man in his arms. They could lay like that for an eternity, however, slowly the rest of the world began to filter back into John’s mind, the low hum of humanity living their lives unaware of his existence and those of his kind, like an annoying itch one could nullify for a while returning to burn frustratingly worse somehow.

The moment of peace was shattered with the slow clapping of an ever increasingly familiar form. The blond man leaned against the doorframe, ankles crossed and looking like he had just stepped off a runway. Cheshire grin firmly in place and eyes dancing in delight he flashed his fangs, “I do so love watching your performances.” The expression turned lecherous, “Any chance for an encore? We could even add a third actor.” He winked at the two of them.

The two men sprang apart, rolling to opposite sides of the destroyed bed. In an odd sort of panicked embarrassment, John scrambled into his pants. His motions were a blur as he began frantically scanning the room for his trousers. He was not going to deal with his maker in the nude. First clothes, then beating.

Sherlock, however, had deftly rolled off the bed and calmly strode forward. His naked form a blur as he crossed the room faster than any mortal could have seen. Using both hands Sherlock shoved the laughing blond out of the room—a maneuver the powerful vampire prankster allowed. The new fledgling vampire did pause long enough to catch the dazzling azure gaze and, with a superior smirk, he slammed the door in his maker’s face.

 

 

~Fin!~


End file.
